Morning light crept softly through the window, stirring the stillness of the room. You sat by the old toy box, its surface scuffed and faded, as if whispering secrets of bygone days. Curiosity overcame you, and with tentative fingers, you opened the lid.

Inside, a jumble of treasures awaited—each item a remnant of childhood that once brimmed with laughter and dreams. A well-loved stuffed bear with one ear slightly missing lay nestled among a handful of colorful building blocks. Faded picture books, their pages yellowed with time, peeked out from beneath a small bundle of hand-drawn sketches and scribbled notes.

Your eyes widened as you discovered a miniature tea set, complete with tiny cups and saucers, as if it had been waiting for a pretend party. A puzzle, its pieces scattered and mismatched, lay in a gentle disarray that somehow hinted at endless possibilities for fun. With each discovery, your heart fluttered—part excitement, part bittersweet nostalgia.

You carefully lifted a delicate music box, its painted surface chipped yet charming. When you turned the key, a soft melody filled the quiet room, wrapping you in a comforting embrace that made you forget, if only for a moment, the heaviness of everything else. A small diary, its cover adorned with childish doodles and stickers, invited you to explore the forgotten thoughts and dreams of someone who once believed in magic.

As you sifted through these remnants, a tender smile crept onto your face. Each toy, each trinket, resonated with a silent promise: that even in the midst of pain and uncertainty, fragments of joy and wonder still survived. In that quiet morning, while the world outside stirred awake, you began piecing together a part of yourself—a little spark of hope that perhaps, amid all the sorrow, there remained the possibility of rediscovering the innocence and resilience of your past.

The sound of footsteps echoed from the stairs, steady and purposeful. Your fingers froze on the edge of the toy box as you glanced up, instinctively tensing, waiting for his presence to fill the room.

Masachiro appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable. His eyes flickered over the scene—your small hands sifting through the forgotten treasures—and for a moment, there was something almost soft in his gaze, though it quickly disappeared behind a mask of calm.

He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. His gaze fell to the toy box, then back to you, and for the briefest moment, the silence seemed to stretch, heavy with unspoken words.

"You're up early," he said, his voice steady, as if this was just another routine.

You didn't respond immediately, still holding the music box in your hands, turning it over, fingers tracing the edges of its chipped surface.

Masachiro sighed, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as he walked further into the room. "I see you found the box," he murmured, his voice a mix of mild surprise and something else—something he didn't let linger.

He paused beside you, watching as you lifted the delicate tea set, staring at it for a long moment before setting it down gently. His eyes softened, but only for an instant.

"You should probably eat something," he added, the tone of his voice almost gentle, though it carried the weight of an order. "I'll get something ready downstairs."

You didn't answer him, still lost in the world of small, forgotten joys laid out before you. Masachiro stood there for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on you with an unreadable expression before he turned away, leaving the room as quietly as he had entered.

The door clicked softly behind him. You looked down at the diary. 

Your fingers hesitated as you opened the diary, the fragile pages feeling heavy under your touch. The first few entries were filled with family moments—pictures of a child laughing, playing, a mother's warm embrace, a father's steady hand. Simple, innocent memories of a life once whole. Your eyes burned, the lump in your throat growing as you skimmed through those pages. The love and happiness written there felt like a world you could never return to.

But then you flipped the pages backward, the unspoken pull urging you to start at the end. Maybe it was a need for something different, something that wasn't so painfully sweet, or maybe it was the quiet urge to uncover a secret hidden deep within the pages.

The last entries made your breath catch.

The words twisted and swirled, unhinged. The writing was frantic, jagged. A child's fear spilled out in the messy scrawl.

"I keep seeing them... watching me, hovering over me. The creatures... Why can't I stop seeing them? Why can't they leave me alone?"

You froze, your own pulse quickening. The words mirrored your own experiences too closely. You had once been a child, terrified of the creatures that lurked in the shadows, their eyes gleaming, their twisted forms haunting every corner of your vision. You'd seen them too—at first, terrifying, suffocating, always there, until you learned to numb the fear, to pretend they weren't there.

But the girl in the diary... her words, her terror—it was so familiar.

The next few pages were filled with the same erratic scribbles. The little girl's world was crumbling, the entries growing darker. She spoke of her father's absence, the empty space where his warmth used to be.

"I don't understand where daddy went. Why doesn't he come home? Why does he leave me with them?"

The page after page... the same hollow sadness, the empty space where he should have been.

The last page, though... it stopped you in your tracks. It was blank. Empty. But the emptiness was suffocating.

There were stains on the paper. Bloodstains. Some of them soaked through, leaving an indelible mark. The edges of the page were torn, ripped, as if the girl had tried to tear her fear away, only to find it tearing her apart.

You pressed the book to your chest, the weight of the past crashing over you. It wasn't just a diary. It was a story—one that mirrored your own in more ways than you could have imagined. A girl lost in her own world, abandoned, haunted by things no one could see.

You could almost hear Masachiro's voice in the distance, muffled through the walls, but it didn't matter. His presence, like the creatures in your mind, was faint—distant—but always lurking.

And you were left with the same question the girl must have asked herself.

What happens when the people who are supposed to protect you... disappear?

The smell of something faintly familiar—fried eggs and sizzling bacon—wafted up the stairs, cutting through the heavy silence that had settled in the apartment. The sound of footsteps echoed as Masachiro moved around downstairs, the soft clinks of utensils mixing with the occasional sigh. You sat still in the room for a moment, holding the diary against your chest, the weight of its final page still pressing down on you.

Eventually, you got up, setting the diary aside on the bed with an almost reluctant care. Your legs felt stiff from being curled up for so long, but you pushed the discomfort aside. Your stomach growled softly, reminding you that, despite everything, you were still a child who needed to eat.

Masachiro was in the kitchen, busy preparing breakfast when you finally made your way down the stairs. His back was to you as he flipped something in the pan, his movements methodical, almost soothing. The room was bathed in soft morning light, spilling through the windows in a muted glow.

You stood by the doorway for a moment, not quite sure how to approach him. He wasn't looking at you, so you watched his hands work the skillet, the clattering of plates breaking the silence.

He must've felt your presence before you spoke, as he turned around, a plate in his hand.

"Good morning," he said, his tone a little softer than usual, but still guarded. "You hungry?" He set the plate on the table in front of you, the warm steam rising from it. Fried rice with a side of miso soup, the breakfast routine he had started making for you since you arrived.

You nodded, though you weren't sure how hungry you really were. It was more out of habit, something you knew you had to do.

Masachiro didn't sit down right away. Instead, he watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You should eat," he said again, this time a little more firmly.

Sitting down, you picked up your chopsticks, the food before you feeling strangely foreign. You had once been a child who ate at a table surrounded by family, warmth, and love, but now it felt distant. Masachiro's presence, though somewhat comforting, didn't fill the empty space left behind.

As you took the first bite, the silence stretched between you both, a barrier that neither of you knew how to break.

CHAPTER COMPLETED