The Image That Sees Back

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Ryunosuke lay on his back, eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling above him, the faint glow of a streetlamp slicing through the blinds in slow-moving bars. His room, usually a comfort, now felt like a box—too small for the thoughts clawing at the inside of his skull.

He shifted.

The sketchbook sat on his desk across the room, closed but charged with something invisible. Like it was watching him.

And next to it, inside his backpack, was the letter. Folded, worn, yet somehow heavier than paper had any right to be.

He hadn't told his mother. Not yet. Something held him back. The look in her eyes earlier—when he'd said he was going through his father's things—had been gentle, but distant. A wall. He didn't know if he was ready to break it down.

The clock blinked: 2:03 a.m.

He sat up slowly, the bedsheets falling in folds around his waist. His feet touched the floor and he shivered, not from cold, but from uncertainty.

He crossed the room and slid the sketchbook toward himself, flipping it open to the last page. It was blank again. The iris and serpent—gone. Or maybe never there to begin with.

Ryunosuke stared at the page for a long time before he reached for a pencil and scrawled something at the bottom corner, barely legible:

If I go, who will I be when I return?

The graphite caught the light, faint and scratchy.

He thought about the look on his father's face in that photograph. Calm… but clenched. Like something always held back. Ryunosuke had that same feeling now—like the world was on the edge of revealing itself, and all he had to do was step forward.

But once he did, nothing would be the same.

He glanced toward the window, half-expecting to see Lilith's silhouette standing in the night fog.

Nothing.

Just shadows, and the gentle hum of the street below.

He whispered his father's name, so softly it almost didn't make a sound.

"Otōsan…"

No answer came. But something shifted inside him—like a door cracking open somewhere deep in his chest.

He didn't sleep.

The morning light spilled into the kitchen, casting long shadows across the table. The smell of coffee and eggs filled the air, but neither brought Ryunosuke any comfort. He sat at the edge of his seat, sleep-deprived and coiled tight. His fingers tapped against the ceramic mug in his hands.

Across from him, Amelia moved through her usual motions—but she was slower today. Her back was stiff as she flipped the eggs, her shoulders heavier. Maybe she felt it too. The shift.

"I was looking through Dad's things yesterday," Ryunosuke said, carefully.

She glanced at him, just for a moment. "What did you find?"

"Some old photos. Letters."

Her posture tightened, though she tried to hide it. "Your father kept a lot of things."

"He kept secrets too."

Amelia froze, spatula hovering mid-air. Then she turned off the stove, set the pan aside, and faced him fully.

"What are you trying to say?"

"I found a letter. Written in Japanese." He watched her reaction closely. "He talked about a group called the Hiyashi Family."

Amelia's breath hitched. "Ryunosuke—"

"You knew." His voice was sharper than he intended. "Did you know what he used to be?"

Her eyes hardened, but they glistened at the edges. "I knew enough. I knew he left that life behind. For us."

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice cracked. "Why did he have to wait until he was dead to talk to me like a man?"

"Because he didn't want that life for you!" she said, louder than she meant. "Because he was afraid it would swallow you too!"

They stared at each other across the table. Her hands trembled. His chest rose and fell like a tide.

"I have to go to Japan," he said quietly. "I need to know who he really was."

Her voice broke. "And what if you don't like what you find?"

Ryunosuke stood up slowly. "I need to find out anyway."

There was silence. The kind that cuts.

Amelia took a shaky breath. "I'm scared, Ryunosuke. I already lost him. I can't lose you too."

His expression softened. "You won't."

She stepped closer, reaching for him instinctively. "I love you."

"I love you too," he said, wrapping his arms around her.

And for a moment, everything paused—just a mother and son, trying to hold onto what they had before everything changed.

The afternoon light poured into Ryunosuke's room in golden streaks. His backpack sat on the floor, the wooden box hidden within. On the desk, his sketchbook lay closed—but not still. Not silent.

He sat before it, hesitant.

The last time he looked, the image was gone. The sword, the iris, the serpent—vanished like a dream upon waking. But still, he felt it. A quiet presence in the pages. Like something waiting to be found again.

Ryunosuke opened the sketchbook.

Blank.

But something shimmered faintly under the surface of the paper, like old ink bleeding through from the other side. He held the page to the light, tilting it slowly—there. A faint outline emerged: the serpent's curve, the iris petals, the blade piercing the soil.

He didn't remember drawing it, and yet… it was undeniably his hand. Just more precise. More deliberate.

He reached for his watercolor set and dabbed the brush into a gentle mix of grey and violet. Carefully, he dragged it across the page.

As if awakened by the touch of color, the sketch revealed itself once more—like a photograph developing in slow motion.

The sword gleamed. The serpent curled tighter around its hilt. The iris bloomed wide.

But now, at the center of the flower, something new had formed—something he hadn't seen before. A red slit-pupil, like a cat's eye. Watching him.

Ryunosuke's breath caught in his throat.

He leaned closer, but the image remained still. Yet something about it felt alive. Familiar.

He blinked.

For a split second, he thought he saw her face in the curves of the petals. Lilith. Watching, waiting.

Then—

His phone buzzed.

He jumped, heart pounding. Reaching for it, he unlocked the screen and saw a message from an unknown number:

Gion. You've already started seeing it, haven't you?

No name. No context.

Just those two lines.

He looked back at the painting. The iris seemed darker now—deeper. Like it had heard the message too.

And suddenly, he knew:

This wasn't just art.

It was a doorway.

And someone… was on the other side.