Kaori Saejima -2021- -

The rain had not stopped. It would not stop for three more days. The old prefectural library had been condemned in 2019—mold, structural decay, a stairwell that led nowhere. She knew because she had walked past it once, two years ago, on the anniversary of her mother's death. The gates were chained. The windows were boarded. A sign in faded red paint read: DANGER. KEEP OUT.

Kaori's breath caught. Her left hand twitched inside the glove, a moth against a windowpane. Kaori Saejima -2021-

Kaori Saejima.

She pulled on her coat. It was too large—her mother's, from a decade ago, the wool frayed at the cuffs. She did not own an umbrella. She did not own a phone that worked. The rain had not stopped

"You came," the figure said. The voice was neither male nor female. It was old and young at once. Tired. She knew because she had walked past it

The ghost countered.