Chapter 7 — You Never Have to Be

She didn't know where the strength came from.

But she stepped forward.

Her hands trembled. Her legs felt like they might collapse.

But she made her voice as sharp as she could.

"Who are you?" Aya demanded, her voice cracking. "What are you doing in my house—in my son's room?"

The figure didn't turn.

Sai sat at Kun's bedside, his back straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. He didn't move like a teenager. He moved like someone ancient pretending to remember youth. His presence radiated calm—but it wasn't the comfort kind. It was the stillness of something that had waited a long, long time.

"I was keeping him company," he said gently. "He's been so lonely."

"Get away from him," she snapped, taking another step into the room.

Still, Sai didn't rise.

Not yet.

He turned slowly, like a music box doll completing its rotation.

His face was far too pale.

His eyes—

Not just dark. Bottomless.

He looked at her with the quiet of a void that had learned to speak.

"You weren't here when he needed you," he said softly. "You were late."

Her breath caught.

"Don't—don't talk like you know anything—"

"But I do."

He rose to his feet. Graceful. Effortless. Like gravity had no hold on him.

"You forgot him today, didn't you?" he asked, head tilted. "You said you'd come home early. He waited. And waited."

"I was working—he knows that—I didn't mean to—!"

Sai stepped forward.

She backed up instinctively—but stopped herself.

"You've always been working," he said, voice low. "Working too hard to notice the bruises he hid under his sleeves. The nights he skipped dinner. The days he came home, didn't speak a word, and you were too tired to ask why."

Aya's lips parted.

No sound came.

Sai's next step was sudden. Close.

Too close.

She flinched.

"He cried alone, Aya," he whispered, name like a dagger. "Every night. For months. And you didn't even hear him."

"I—" she tried to speak, but it came out a sob. "Stop. Please—stop. Who are you?! What are you doing to him?!"

"I'm doing what you didn't."

His voice was no longer soft.

Just quiet.

"I'm listening."

Behind him, Kun stirred.

A broken sound escaped his lips.

"…Mom…?"

She moved instantly—reaching for him.

But Sai stepped between them.

His smile was gone.

"You shouldn't touch him," he said. "Not now. Not after everything."

The lights above them flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then all at once—they went out.

Only the dim hallway light behind her remained, casting Sai's long shadow across the room. He looked taller now. Stretched. His silhouette curved unnaturally, like something crawling behind human skin.

Aya's pulse spiked.

"You're… you're not real," she whispered. "You're not real."

Sai tilted his head.

His eyes gleamed like oil under water.

"Neither is your version of him."

She stared.

"What… what are you talking about?"

Sai blinked slowly.

"You don't deserve him."

The door slammed shut.

Right in her face.

—

She didn't hesitate.

"Kun!"

She grabbed the knob—twisting, yanking, shaking it violently.

"Kun, open the door! Baby, can you hear me?!"

No answer.

The metal burned against her palm—ice cold, like something had frozen the handle from the inside. Her skin stuck to it. She pulled back with a gasp.

"Please—please, let me in! Kun!"

She slammed her shoulder against the door.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

It didn't even creak.

It felt like steel.

Like the door was no longer a door.

Somewhere inside—she heard humming.

Soft.

Childlike.

A lullaby.

"Sleep little boy, don't open your eyes...Something's waiting in the quiet tonight…"

"No—no, stop—!!" she screamed, pounding both fists against the wood. "Stop it! Leave him alone!"

The house didn't answer.

Instead—

The hallway lights began to flicker.

Then die.

One by one.

Pft. Pft. Pft.

Like extinguished breath.

She turned.

The hallway behind her—

Was longer than it should've been.

The bathroom was gone.

Only an endless corridor stretched backward. The wallpaper was peeling. The ceiling bulged and groaned like it might collapse.

And in the dark—

She swore she heard someone breathing.

"No—no, this isn't real—"

She turned back to the door, tears streaking her cheeks.

"Kun, please!" she begged. "I'm here now! I didn't know—I'm so sorry—I didn't know you were hurting, I didn't mean to leave you alone—please open the door—I'm here, I'm here, please…"

She pressed her ear to the door.

Inside—

Sai's voice. Soft. Coaxing.

"It's okay, Kun. I'm here now."

A pause.

"I won't let her in. You don't need her anymore."

Aya's body locked.

"No…"

From behind the door—

Kun crying.

Small. Quiet sobs.

And Sai's whisper:

"…Shhh. Don't cry. Just sleep.I'll take care of everything now…"

Her knees hit the floor.

"Please—please—don't take him from me—"

She sobbed, shaking. Her fists bruised. Her voice gone.

The door never opened.

Not once.

It was as if the house had decided.

And it no longer needed her.