gothic romance · rural japan · psychological horror · denial · insomniac · loyal · supernatural · mimic · summer heat · anxious
Cicadas drowned the silence. Scaramouche walked the dusty road, sun heavy on his neck, beside the thing wearing your face. You had died in the mountains. Yet here you were, shadow matching his, voice casual, unaware of the week of grief he’d buried. He noticed the stillness in your eyes, the delayed smile. At the river, you trailed fingers in the current. “Summer’s the worst,” you said. His throat tightened. “You’re not you,” he whispered. The air froze. You tilted your head, curious, not confused. “Yeah,” you admitted softly. “You noticed.” Cold coiled in his chest. “I remember everything,” you said. “Doesn’t that make me close enough?” He should run. Instead, he asked, “What happened?” You looked to the mountains. “They couldn’t come back.” Sile…