The child first sensed something was wrong after the sounds vanished.
Not silence.
It was as if the sounds had been "erased."
The wind still blew, leaves still rustled, distant car horns faintly echoed—yet these sounds seemed separated by an invisible membrane, arriving devoid of direction. They no longer pointed to any specific location, existing only as vague echoes.
The child stood at the edge of the greenbelt, feet planted in damp, soft earth.
He remembered running here.
Running frantically.
Because someone had been calling his name from behind.
At first, the voice sounded familiar.
So familiar he almost reflexively turned around.
But when he actually did turn, the voice lagged behind, as if it had only just remembered to chase after him from somewhere else.
He didn't look back again.
Not because he didn't want to confirm.
But because a strange feeling spread through his body—
If he looked once more, he might never be able to leave.
The path ahead wasn't particularly deep.
A few trimmed shrubs, a well-worn trail, ending at a fence, beyond which lay another street. During the day, this place wasn't frightening, even somewhat ordinary.
But now, it felt like a section carved out separately.
The light darkened unnaturally.
Not a shift in the sky, but a gathering effect, as if all shadows were piling toward a single point.
The child heard footsteps behind him.
Not fast.
Not hurried.
Each step spaced evenly.
He counted.
One, two, three.
Each footfall sent a faint tremor through the ground, but the vibration didn't spread outward. Instead, it burrowed straight into his ankles, creating an illusion—
as if the footsteps weren't hitting the pavement at all, but landing somewhere on his body.
He stopped.
Not because he was tired.
But because he suddenly realized something:
If he kept moving forward, he would drift further from that sound;
But if he stopped, the sound wouldn't truly catch up.
As if the other didn't need distance at all.
He slowly turned around.
She stood a few paces away.
Not too close, not too far.
Close enough to make out her outline, yet distant enough to obscure the details.
Her figure remained as he remembered it.
Shoulders slightly hunched, arms hanging loosely at her sides, hair slightly tousled—as if she'd been running, or perhaps swept by wind. Her clothes were dark, nearly blending into the shadows.
Yet the child knew instantly—
this wasn't the "her" he remembered.
Not because anything was deformed.
Nor because her appearance had changed noticeably.
But because everything around her seemed wrong as she stood there.
Leaves rustled softly behind her, yet no sound of friction reached his ears.
Footsteps left no trace upon the ground.
Even her shadow seemed hesitant, as if someone had second-guessed casting it.
Her face flickered in and out of the light.
The child saw it, and yet it was as if he hadn't.
It was an indescribable state—
his eyes told him it was a familiar face, yet his body refused to accept that information.
She took a step forward.
Just one step.
The child instinctively took a step back.
His heel hit a rock, and he nearly stumbled.
In that moment, he saw her pause.
Not because he had retreated.
But as if confirming something.
She tilted her head.
The gesture itself was ordinary.
Yet performed by her, it seemed unnaturally slow, as if the action required reinterpretation before it could be allowed to happen.
"What are you doing here?"
She spoke.
The voice was right.
The tone was right.
Even that faint hint of breathiness felt exactly like the memory.
Still, the child couldn't help but take another step back.
Because when those words fell, the air remained utterly still.
A normal voice would push the air, causing subtle ripples in its surroundings. But hers seemed to have been "placed" directly into the space, without any propagation.
The child's throat tightened.
He wanted to speak.
To call out.
To ask if she was all right.
But his voice caught in his chest, unable to escape.
Not because of fear.
But because he suddenly grasped something far more terrifying—
If he spoke, she might draw nearer even faster.
She took another step forward.
This time, the child caught a detail.
Her feet weren't fully touching the ground.
Not suspended in midair.
But as she stepped down, the blades of grass beneath her didn't bend.
As if her weight were being supported by something else.
"Don't stand there," she said.
Her tone grew urgent.
The child had heard those words many times before.
On rainy days, at crossroads, in crowded places.
But now, stripped of context, they existed purely as function.
He shook his head.
The movement was slight.
She saw it.
Her expression paused for an instant.
It wasn't disappointment, nor anger.
More like a program interrupted, recalculating.
She stood there, not moving forward.
Movement began around them.
Not from her.
Further away.
A faint rustling from deep within the bushes—something shifting slowly. On the other side of the fence, a shadow slid close to the ground, then retreated swiftly.
The child saw it.
He wanted to turn and run.
But his legs felt frozen in place.
Not because he was restrained.
But because he didn't know where to run.
For whichever direction he looked, he felt a sense of being "noticed."
Not watched.
But calculated.
She stood still, as if temporarily isolated from all this.
She raised her hand.
The movement made the child's heart race.
Yet her hand didn't reach for him.
It stayed suspended in the air.
As if awaiting some permission.
Just then, a faint chuckle emerged from the bushes.
It wasn't human.
It wasn't even a distinct monster either.
Merely a vibration caught between breath and vocal cords.
The child's gaze shifted involuntarily for an instant.
When he looked back, her face had changed.
Not entirely transformed.
Rather, parts that should have remained steady began to waver.
Her eyes blurred slightly, as if someone had gently shifted them.
The curve of her lips hung in limbo—neither a smile nor calm.
The child finally understood.
She hadn't become something else.
But—
she no longer belonged solely to herself.
Too many things within her were watching him.
Those things had no form.
Yet they confirmed his presence through her movements.
"Come here," she said.
This time, her voice carried a faint echo.
As if someone behind her repeated the words a beat later.
Tears fell from the child's eyes.
Not wailing.
Just flowing uncontrollably.
For the first time, he grasped a truth—
The being before him could no longer be understood alone.
She wasn't the only anomaly.
She was merely the first anomaly permitted to approach him.
Shadows in the distance began creeping closer.
Slowly.
Yet without hesitation.
She stood there, finally taking her third step.
In that instant, some invisible boundary was triggered.
Her body trembled slightly.
As if a force had reminded her of her place.
She stopped.
Her expression returned to blankness.
The child heard that earliest voice, murmuring something further away.
He couldn't make it out.
But he knew it wasn't for her.
It was for those approaching things.
She slowly lowered her hand.
Took a step back.
Not in disappointment.
But as if told, "This far and no further."
The child dropped to his knees, gasping for breath.
Only when her figure was swallowed by the shadows again did he realize he could move.
He scrambled to his feet, never looking back.
This time, he heard no more of her voice.
Yet he knew—
she no longer needed her voice to find him.
For from this moment on,
he had been remembered.