Chapter 1.6
The apartment smelled like rain and old paper.
Ayame moved slowly, folding sweaters into a bag that was already too full. Each motion felt deliberate, as if she were pressing something into memory. A pair of thick socks. A scarf she hadn't worn in years. Her thermos. She stared at it for a moment before tucking it in the corner of her luggage.
The air had changed. Not in temperature, but in weight. As if the walls of her apartment had taken a breath and held it.
Her coat hung near the door, already checked three times for the usual things: pen, notebook, spare battery pack, tissues, hand sanitizer. Still, she felt the need to check again.
Outside, the street was wet from a passing drizzle. Lights reflected in puddles like small, distant stars. Ayame paused by the window. A pair of bicycles leaned against a railing across the street, still and forgotten. One had a basket full of rain.
In the reflection, her face looked paler than usual. Tired. Like someone who had been searching for something but had long forgotten what it was.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Yuuta Minami: "Thought you might find this cool. That mountain range you're going to? Has a weird history of fog shifts. Like, sudden whiteouts. Even in late winter. Stay warm out there."
Ayame read the message twice. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She considered a reply. Thanks.Interesting.I'll be careful.
But none of it felt real.
After a moment, she locked the screen and let the silence answer for her.
---
Noa came over briefly that afternoon. She didn't take off her coat.
"You really packed," she said, eyeing the hallway.
Ayame nodded. "It's only a few weeks."
"Yuuta's been making a spreadsheet of local landmarks already," Noa said with a half-smile. "He's worse than a teacher on a field trip."
Ayame smiled faintly.
"You okay?" Noa asked after a pause.
"I'm always okay."
Noa laughed once—short, dry. "I'll believe that when you text me something that isn't a moon emoji."
Ayame didn't answer, just offered a sideways glance and a shrug.
Noa shifted, the way people do when they want to say something and aren't sure they should.
"You'll be fine," she said finally. "Just… don't disappear up there. Okay?"
Ayame reached over and tugged the sleeve of Noa's coat. "I always come back."
But her voice was quieter than she meant. And Noa's eyes flickered, as if she'd heard the truth behind it.
---
Ren visited just before dinner, holding a box of pastries from their favorite bakery.
"Mom made me buy these," he said with a lopsided grin. "Even though she'll probably say you don't eat enough sugar."
Ayame took the bag from him and let him in. The apartment felt smaller with Ren in it—warmer, somehow. Like it remembered having family.
They sat on the floor, backs against the low table. He scrolled through his phone while she picked at a sweet bun.
"You've been dreaming weird again, haven't you?" he asked suddenly, without looking up.
She froze.
"I don't tell Mom," he added quickly. "But I know when you don't sleep well. Your eyes go flat. You stop smiling, even with Noa."
Ayame looked at him—this boy who still drank cocoa with two sugars and worried like someone twice his age.
"Yeah," she said softly. "But they're just dreams."
He nodded, unconvinced. Then he gave her a look like he wanted to say more but wouldn't.
As he left, he turned at the door. "Don't forget to write me," he said. "Even if it's just weird poems or stuff."
Ayame managed a real smile. "I won't."
---
That night, Ayame sat on her futon with the window cracked open. The air was sharp. She listened to the city murmuring at the edges of sleep—the distant hum of trains, the occasional voice rising from the street. Her notebook lay beside her, blank.
One of Ren's old manga bookmarks had slipped between the pages. She left it there.
She reached for her purse, resting near her bedside. Her fingers brushed against the bell tied to the strap—the same one she had found days ago, delicate and silver with a red ribbon. It made a soft chime as her hand touched it.
She traced the ribbon with her thumb, feeling the small warmth of the charm. A faint scent of lavender clung to it now—though she never added any.
It felt more real than anything else in the room.
The cat didn't come tonight.
Only the wind, pushing through the buildings like it had somewhere to be.
She didn't remember falling asleep.
---
In the dream, the snow fell without sound.
She walked a narrow path, half-buried in frost. Her boots made no noise. All around her, the landscape was white and endless—like breath that had never exhaled. Like a silence that had never learned to end.
Then, faintly: bells. Not chimes. Not wind. Bells, carried from somewhere far, far ahead.
She followed.
In the distance, a figure turned.
White robes. Pale hair. A face obscured by drifting mist, unreadable and vast.
Ayame's heart beat in her throat.
She stepped forward—and woke.
Her fingers were stiff with cold.
---
The window had frosted over in delicate lace. The charm Ren gave her lay beside her pillow.
The window had frosted over in delicate lace. The charm Ren gave her lay beside her pillow. Her notebook was open in her lap.
One line had been written in her own handwriting:
Remember this path.
She didn't remember writing it.
But the bell on the charm gave a faint chime, as if stirred by something unseen
End of Chapter 1.6 — Things That Fade