That night, Sakurai Misaki had traced through the events again and again in her mind. A translucent body. Silver-white short hair. Pale blue eyes. A boy standing quietly in the corner of the room. It had been terrifying. Truly, terrifying. And yet — she couldn't stop fixating on the fact that his face matched the one in the photograph. (Running away won't help me understand anything.) In the evening, Misaki sat on the edge of her bed. Outside the window, the ridgeline of Tsukimori Mountain dissolved into the sunset. The cicadas had stopped singing. Only the insects of late summer's end called softly from outside. Her parents were still downstairs. The faint sound of the television drifted up. Misaki pulled her school bag onto her lap and rummaged through it. Notebook. Pen. Eraser. — She took out the notebook and stared at its cover. (If he comes again...) If he couldn't speak, then she could use writing. The idea had come to her after hours of turning over last night's events. He couldn't produce sound. He couldn't move objects. Then at least, if she could make something where he could point out letters with his finger — She opened the notebook and let her pen move across the page. Starting with "a," she wrote out the fifty-sound hiragana chart carefully, one square at a time. A-i-u-e-o. Ka-ki-ku-ke-ko. Sa-shi-su-se-so. Where the characters came out slightly crooked, she erased them with her eraser and rewrote them. Ta-chi-tsu-te-to. Na-ni-nu-ne-no. (Will something like this really work?) She had no confidence. But doing something was better than doing nothing. After finishing the fifty-sound chart, Misaki placed the notebook gently beside her bed, hugged her knees, and waited. The temperature in the room was still normal. 　＊ How long had she waited? Misaki noticed it just as she was beginning to doze off. The air changed. The temperature dropped gradually. The air touching her skin turned cold, and her breath began to frost slightly. Small ice crystals started spreading slowly across the edge of the window glass. Just like last night. Exactly the same. Misaki gripped the blanket tightly to her chest. (He's coming.) She knew it. But she hadn't prepared herself emotionally. Fear rose from the pit of her stomach. She wanted to run. But her legs wouldn't move. Her gaze was drawn toward the corner of the room — There. A boy stood in the same place as last night. His silver-white short hair was soft and fluffy, his entire form translucent and faintly see-through. Old Western-style clothes — a white shirt and short pants. The kind of outfit a child from a hundred years ago would have worn. His pale blue eyes looked straight at her. Misaki remained frozen, her face half-buried in the blanket. But — she didn't run. (This child did nothing last night either. He just stood there.) The boy's eyes were calm. Not angry. Not trying to frighten her. Just watching her intently. There was something searching in his gaze. Misaki took a deep breath and opened her mouth. "[scared]W-who... are you?" Her voice came out hoarse. But she managed to speak. The boy's mouth moved. — But no sound came out. Only his lips moved, only the air trembled, and no voice reached her. The boy pointed to his throat with one finger. Then slowly, sadly, he shook his head. (He can't speak.) In that moment, something shifted inside Misaki. A small hole opened in the membrane of fear. Through that hole, something that was neither curiosity nor pity slipped in. This child wasn't a frightening presence. He was trapped here, unable to even produce sound — Misaki reached for the notebook she'd placed beside her bed. With trembling hands, she held it out toward the boy. "[serious]This... it's a fifty-sound chart. If you point to the letters, I'll be able to understand what you want to say." The boy stared at the notebook. He hesitated, looking at Misaki's face. Then at the notebook. Then at her face again. And then — slowly, a translucent finger extended. It barely touched anything. But she felt the surface of the notebook grow cold. The finger stopped over the letter "re." "[surprised]Re?" When Misaki spoke it aloud, the boy nodded. Then his finger moved. "O." "Re, o — Leo?" The boy nodded. He nodded again. This time clearly, with conviction. (Leo. This child's name is Leo.) Something deep in Misaki's chest slowly loosened. He had a name. Having a name meant he was a real person. A child who had lived here a hundred years ago. "[gentle]So your name is Leo." When she said that, a subtle change appeared on the boy's — Leo's — face. The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly. Not enough to be called a smile. But his expression definitely softened. It was so innocent, so pure — Misaki's chest tightened. (This child isn't bad.) She was certain of it. There was no logical basis. But she knew. 　＊ The exchange with Leo was awkward. One letter at a time, he would point, and Misaki would speak it aloud to confirm. Leo would nod or shake his head. That was all their conversation consisted of. But even that much conveyed something. When Misaki asked "Did you live here?" Leo nodded. "Are you always here?" — He nodded again. "Weren't you scared?" — There was a pause, and then he gave a small, quiet nod. (A hundred years. Alone in this mansion the whole time.) The thought made her chest ache. Leo's finger began moving again. This time carefully, pointing to each letter with deliberation. "Ta." "Su." "Ke." "Te." — Help me. As Misaki read the words aloud, she noticed her hands holding the notebook were shaking. "[serious]Help me... with what? Help from whom?" Leo's gaze wandered as if searching for an answer. He looked at Misaki's face, then out the window, then back at her — and then he quietly pointed toward the window, in the direction of Tsukimori Mountain. The moon was out. A full moon, illuminating the mountain's ridgeline in white. The next instant, Leo's outline wavered and blurred. Then it faded. Like smoke, growing transparent bit by bit — and vanished. She was alone in the room. Only the frost crystals remained on the edge of the window glass. Misaki placed the notebook on her lap and traced the characters "help me" with her finger. Without speaking, just tracing. Ta, su, ke, te. (Maybe for a hundred years, he's been trying to tell someone these words.) The thought made the back of her eyes burn. Not that she wanted to cry. But something was definitely welling up inside her. The sadness outweighed the fear. Misaki wrote "Leo" in the notebook, and beneath it wrote "help me." She stared at it for a while. (How can I help him?) She didn't know. But she felt she had to do something. Leo had waited here for a hundred years. And tonight, he had conveyed these words to her. It didn't feel like coincidence. 　＊ The next morning, Misaki waited for her parents to leave, then slung her bag over her shoulder. As she walked to the bus stop, she remembered words she'd heard on the bus yesterday. The way the driver's uncle had looked like he wanted to say "cursed house." And how her father had happily mentioned it was "a bargain property." (There must be a reason it's called a cursed house.) She took a single bus line through Tsukimori Town, heading toward the center of Kasumigawa City. The bus wound through rice paddies and mountains for forty minutes. Her destination was the Kasumigawa City Public Library. A concrete rectangular building in the city center. Standing in front of the entrance, Misaki took a deep breath. She'd decided to investigate herself. That's why she'd come. Inside the library was quiet, with air conditioning running. She walked between the bookshelves and pushed open the door marked "Local History Room." Inside was a single librarian — a woman in her fifties wearing thick-framed glasses and a white shirt with a cardigan. She had her eyes on some documents, but looked up when Misaki entered. "Welcome. What would you like to research?" Her voice was calm. "[serious]Um, I'd like to research the Harukaze Mansion — the one in Tsukimori Town — about something from about a hundred years ago." The librarian's expression shifted for just a moment. But it quickly returned to its calm state, and she stood up. "[serious]You can view old newspapers on microfilm. Would you like me to show you how to use it?" Akiko Nakamura — that's what her name tag said — guided Misaki to the microfilm machine and carefully taught her how to operate it. There were several reels of old newspapers, classified by era. "Do you have a rough idea of the time period?" "[serious]Around a hundred years ago." "[gentle]Then let's start around here." Nakamura set up the reel for her. Old newspaper pages appeared on the machine's screen. The text was small and hard to read at first. Misaki slowly turned the fast-forward lever. The pages flowed. Flowed. Flowed. (It has to be somewhere.) Her hand on the lever was slightly damp with sweat. Old newspaper pages appeared one after another, and she skipped past articles about unrelated events. Town events. Weather. Agricultural news. None of it mattered. Misaki kept her eyes fixed on the screen, turning the lever. And then — her hand stopped. A small headline caught her eye in the upper right of the screen. "Harukaze Mansion Fire — Two Children Dead" Misaki held her breath. Slowly, she read the article. A fire broke out at the Harukaze residence in Tsukimori Town. Believed to be accidental. The eldest son, Leo (age 12), and eldest daughter, Lilia (age 8), who were inside the mansion at the time, died. The grandparents, who were outside, escaped safely — Her hands trembled. She couldn't stop the microfilm lever. It shook in small increments, wouldn't move smoothly. Misaki pulled her hands away from the lever and placed them on her lap. She wrapped her shaking hands with her other hand. (Leo had a younger sister.) An eight-year-old sister. Her name was Lilia. But last night, Leo had never pointed to that name. He'd conveyed "help me," had pointed toward the mountain, but — he'd never mentioned his sister once. (Why?) Misaki read the text on the screen again. "Eldest daughter Lilia (age 8) died." Eight years old. Four years younger than Leo. Brother and sister, both in the same fire — The weight in her chest was heavy. Not sadness or fear — words couldn't quite capture this heaviness. The events of a hundred years ago swirled in her mind, mixing with Leo's "help me" from tonight. She became aware of Nakamura's presence nearby. The librarian was keeping her distance but watching with concern. "[gentle]...Are you alright?" "[sad]Yes, I'm fine. Thank you very much." Misaki answered and stood up. Her legs felt a bit unsteady. 　＊ During the bus ride home, Misaki stared out the window the entire time. The landscape flowed past. Rice paddies. Mountains. More rice paddies. The same scenery as on the way there, but it all looked different now. Lilia. Eight years old. That name kept circling through her mind. (Why didn't Leo mention his sister?) Because he was afraid? Because it was too sad to put into words? Or — because there was some reason he couldn't speak about it? She didn't know any of the answers. 　＊ She arrived back at the mansion in the early afternoon. Her parents were still out, and the house was quiet. Misaki took off her shoes at the entrance and walked down the hallway into the living room. The photograph above the fireplace caught her eye. An old sepia-toned photograph. Four people were in it — an elderly man and woman, and two children. A boy on the right, and a small girl standing close beside him. The same photograph she'd seen last night. But today, she looked at it with different eyes. The girl's face was smiling. Not a wide, open-mouthed smile, but a gentle one with just the corners of her mouth slightly raised. The boy — Leo — had his hand resting sof