Chapter 4
The sun was out, but the light felt wrong.
Thin. Sickly.
Like the sky itself had been stretched over something rotten.
Aika sat at the kitchen table, staring at her mother as she moved through the motions of morning. Scrambled eggs sizzled in the pan. The record player spun its scratchy old tune. Sunlight poured through the windows in perfect golden beams.
It was all so normal it made her skin crawl.
When Aika finally found her voice, it came out cracked and small.
"Where's Hana?"
Her mother turned. Smiled. Tilted her head like a curious doll.
And laughed.
"I don't have two daughters, silly," she said brightly, wiping her hands on her apron. "You've always been my one and only."
Aika's stomach twisted. Her hands shook beneath the table, hidden in her lap.
She didn't argue. She didn't scream.
Because that wasn't her mother.
Not really.
The thing standing at the stove wore her face, but the soul was gone—or replaced with something far worse.
The house was different too.
When Aika slipped away from the kitchen and searched, she found the picture frames still hanging on the walls, but the photographs inside were missing.
Gone.
No family portraits. No school photos.
No Hana.
It was as if her sister had never existed at all.
ΔLight's presence pressed closer now.
Reflected in the glass of the TV.
Shimmering in the shine of the toaster.
Blinking gently from the mirror above the sink.
Watching. Waiting.
He wasn't trying to scare her.
He was timing something.
It pushed Aika toward the attic—the one place Mother never let her go.
The stairs creaked under her bare feet. Dust hung heavy in the stale air, clogging her throat. The attic was almost empty except for one thing: a shape tucked into the far corner, hidden beneath a sagging yellow tarp.
Aika pulled it free.
Beneath it: a box.
Wrapped in wax paper, tied shut with thick, grimy rope.
Inside the box—
A doll.
She sucked in a breath the moment she saw it.
ΔLight.
His stitched face, hollow and pale, glowed faintly in the dim light.
Parts of him were scorched, the fabric burned and blackened, as if he'd survived a fire.
And somehow... she remembered him.
Not just a dream. Not some trick of fear.
Real.
Aika clutched the doll to her chest, heart pounding.
He had been hers once, long ago.
Before Mother took him away.
Now, he was back.
And she was not going to let him go again.
Cradling ΔLight against her chest, Aika descended the attic stairs.
She didn't care if she was the last Mori anymore.
The name meant nothing now.
Her bloodline didn't matter.
Only the truth did.
And she was going to find it—with ΔLight at her side.
[Aika's Diary – 7/12/20XX – Afternoon]
The sun is out… but it doesn't feel safe.
She smiled at me this morning.
Like nothing happened.
She called me down for breakfast like always—sunlight pouring through the windows, the smell of eggs, that humming tune from her old record player. No shrine. No blood. No Hana.
When I asked her where my sister was, she tilted her head and laughed like I'd told her a joke.
"I don't have two daughters, silly,"
she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
"You've always been my one and only."
My throat tightened. My hands shook.
But I didn't scream. I didn't argue.
Because that wasn't her.
At least… not fully.
It's like someone turned her soul off and put something new inside.
Or maybe she's always been this way, and the sweet, suburban-mother act was the mask.
The worst part?
There are no photos of Hana anymore.
Not in the living room.
Not in the hallway.
Not even in my own room.
The picture frames are still there—but the photos?
Blank. Or missing.
As if she never existed.
ΔLight's face is everywhere now.
In the bathroom mirror.
In the toaster.
In the gloss of the TV.
He never moves. He just watches.
But I can feel his pulse.
Steady. Counting down to something.
That's why I went to the attic.
It was almost empty.
Dust thick as ash.
The wood groaning under every step.
But in the far corner, beneath a sagging yellow tarp...
A box.
Wrapped in wax paper and tied with thick, old rope.
Hidden like a secret someone didn't want me to find.
Inside—
A doll.
It's him.
ΔLight.
The same hollow face.
The same faint light flickering behind the stitched eyes.
Worn. Burned in places. Like he'd survived something terrible.
And the strangest thing?
I remember him.
Not vaguely, not like a dream.
I remember hugging this doll when I was little.
Sleeping with him when the walls whispered at night.
Hiding him in the closet when Mother got mad.
He was mine.
Before she took him away.
And now... he's back.
Why did she take him from me?
Why did Father ever let me keep him?
What is he, really?
I'm bringing him back to my room.
I think there's more to him than just memory.
Maybe answers.
Maybe protection.
I don't know if I'm the last Mori anymore.
But I know this:
I'm not alone.
ΔLight and I—
We're going to find the truth.
– Aika