The first thing to go wrong wasn't the street.
It was time.
Looking back, the boy realized there had been no clear dividing line that night. No single moment could be pinpointed as "where it all began." By the time he sensed something was amiss, everything had already happened once over.
When he left that street, the sky was darker than he remembered.
Not the darkness of late night, but an unnatural darkness. As if the lights had dimmed prematurely, forcibly pushing back the safe hours by several hours.
He walked along the familiar route.
The intersections, convenience stores, abandoned bus stops—all remained in their places. But with each passing landmark, he found himself instinctively checking for one thing—
Was anyone stopping?
Not the kind of stop for a red light.
But like her, suddenly halting, standing where they shouldn't, doing nothing but watching.
At first, no one did.
The child's footsteps gradually relaxed.
He told himself maybe the earlier scene was just an anomaly. Maybe she had simply manifested earlier than others. Like how symptoms first appear concentrated in one person.
He had just turned onto a narrower street when he heard someone speaking softly.
Not a conversation.
More like a monologue.
The child stopped and pressed himself against the wall.
The sound came from across the street, at the entrance of a barbershop that had been closed for ages. The rolling shutter was halfway down, the interior pitch black. A woman stood in the doorway, her back to the street, her head slightly bowed.
Her shadow clung to the shutter.
The shadow was complete.
The child stared at it for a few seconds, feeling a slight relief in his chest.
At least she still cast a shadow.
The woman's voice was broken and disjointed, the words indistinct save for the rising and falling of her tone. It sounded like she was repeatedly confirming something, or perhaps soothing an invisible presence.
The child took a step forward.
A small pebble crunched underfoot, making a faint sound.
The woman's voice stopped.
The shadow didn't move.
"...Is anyone there?" the woman asked, her voice slightly hoarse.
The child didn't answer.
He held his breath, waiting for her to turn around.
But she didn't.
She only slowly lifted her head. The shadow's head stretched slightly on the rolling door before returning to normal.
"You're here too," she said.
It wasn't a question.
It felt like confirming a fact already perceived.
The child's throat tightened.
"I didn't see you," the woman added, "but you were here."
The child took a step back.
This time, he was certain.
She wasn't speaking to the air.
She was speaking to the "perceived presence."
"Don't come closer," the child finally said.
The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
The woman's shadow flickered.
She slowly turned around.
Her face appeared slightly blurred in the dim light, but the placement of her features was correct. Eyes, nose, mouth—no misalignment, no exaggerated distortion.
The only thing amiss was the way she looked at the child.
Not with her eyes.
But with an entire "alignment."
"You can speak," she murmured softly.
The child didn't move.
"You're not like them," she continued. "You're still whole."
The child didn't know who "them" referred to.
But he didn't ask.
Because he suddenly realized something—
she treated "wholeness" as a state, not a default attribute.
"What did you see?" the woman asked.
The child didn't answer.
The woman didn't seem to need his answer. Her gaze passed over him, fixed deeper into the street.
"More and more," she said. "It wasn't this loud before."
"Loud?" the child asked instinctively.
The woman smiled.
It was a brief, weary smile.
"You can't hear it now," she said. "But you will soon."
The child wanted to leave.
His body began to retreat, but his steps faltered, as if something held him back.
"Don't follow her," the woman said suddenly.
The child stopped.
"She's no longer the only one," the woman continued. "She's just the first who no longer needs to pretend."
"Do you know her?" the child asked.
The woman didn't answer immediately.
She lowered her head, staring at her hands.
"I used to," she said. "Now... not really."
A chill crept up the child's spine.
"You too?" he asked.
The woman lifted her head and looked at him.
In that instant, the child saw clearly that her pupils didn't reflect his face.
Instead, they held an irregular darkness.
"I haven't reached that point yet," she said, "but I can already tell the difference."
"Tell what difference?" the child asked.
The woman's gaze drifted past him again, toward the distance.
At the end of the street, several figures had appeared, no one knew when.
They stood scattered, each occupying a stretch of the road. They didn't speak or approach one another, but each bore a similar relaxed posture.
As if they'd just released a long-held posture.
"Telling who's human," the woman said.
The child's breathing quickened.
"And them?" he whispered.
The woman didn't look at him.
"They're still deciding," she said. "Or rather, being decided."
Suddenly, one of the figures in the distance lifted its head.
The movement was slight, yet it made the others freeze simultaneously.
The child saw clearly—
they were seeing each other.
Not with their eyes.
But through some faster, more direct means.
In that instant of recognition, there was no surprise, no fear. Only an almost instinctual confirmation.
Like finally hearing the frequency of their own kind amidst the noise.
"They'll start searching for each other," the woman said. "Once it begins, it can't be stopped."
"And the people?" the child asked.
"People?" the woman repeated the word.
She fell silent for a few seconds, as if considering whether the term still applied.
"People will keep walking," she said. "Keep going to work, coming home, sleeping. Keep pretending everything is still on its original track."
"Until one day, they realize they can no longer enter those places."
The child's gaze returned to the figures.
They were no longer standing still.
They had begun to move.
Not toward the same direction, but toward each other.
Their pace was slow, yet remarkably steady.
The child suddenly realized something:
Her appearance wasn't the cause of the anomaly.
It merely allowed something that had always existed to finally emerge from hiding.
"You should go now," the woman said.
The child turned to look at her.
"Aren't you leaving?"
The woman shook her head.
"I've already been seen," she said. "There's no point in hiding anymore."
The child asked no more questions.
He turned and walked away.
This time, he didn't look back.
He knew that once certain images were confirmed again, they could never be pretended never happened.
The street stretched farther behind him.
The silhouettes of people began to dissolve into the night.
And in the child's mind, only one thought grew clearer—
She was not a monster.
She was merely the first
who no longer needed to "be like a human" to prove her existence.
What was truly terrifying
were those beings
who had just learned to recognize each other—
and no longer needed her to lead the way.