The shadow figure stretched her hand toward Yuuta.
Both hands, trembling, reaching for his face, not to strike, not to seize, but to hold. The gesture was unmistakable. It was the gesture of a mother who had found a child she thought was dead, who could not believe her eyes, who needed to touch, to confirm, to feel warmth beneath her fingers and know that this time, finally, the nightmare had ended.
But Yuuta saw the bodies. He saw the hollow chests, the empty eye sockets, the remains of those who had come before him and had not left. He saw the shadows in the distance, faceless and patient, waiting for their turn. He saw what happened to those who let her touch them.
He should run. Every instinct, every screaming nerve, every memory of every nightmare he had ever survived told him to flee.
And yet.
