You open your eyes.
A breath. Or maybe nothing.
In front of you: a pristine void. A whiteness so pure it scrapes at the edges of thought. The floor doesn't welcome you—it just is. Like you. Neither hard nor soft. Neither warm nor cold. You have no weight. No age. You simply exist.
Omori.
A name without an origin, without a voice. It passes through you like a whisper, without echo.
You don't remember arriving here. Perhaps you never left. There are no doors, no windows. No walls. And yet, you are trapped.
Around you, a few scattered items, placed with care—or maybe at random. A black-and-white striped carpet, hypnotic and still. A box of tissues. A gray laptop, powered off. A giant, soft hand. And a sketchbook, lying quietly, waiting for you to remember.
The silence is so deep it becomes music. You think you hear your heartbeat—but it's only the memory of one.
You sit. You stare ahead.
And you wait.
But today, the door is here.
It hasn't always been there. It isn't always there. It only comes when something stirs in the white. When the stillness splits with a shiver. A thin wooden outline, tinged with soft blue and red, trembles against the world's surface.
You rise without thinking. Not because you want to. But because this is what you do.
You reach out. You open it.
The world beyond is soft. Too soft.
The light is warm, but unreal—like watercolors painted over an old dream.
You walk on grass that's never known rain. Each blade seems to smile as you pass. A single pink-blossomed tree stands in the center of a green hill, casting a gentle shadow over a picnic blanket.
That's where they are.
Aubrey laughs, her bat swinging through the air, pretending to strike invisible foes. Her pink hair dances with her every move.
Kel runs, jumps, stumbles, and gets back up. He's never still. He's loud enough for two. For ten. As if drowning out something.
Hero, quieter, watches and listens. He speaks only when needed. His voice is gentle, like an older brother who knows everything but doesn't say it.
And Mari. Always there. Sitting by the basket. Her gaze is a place to rest. Sometimes she plays piano—even here. Even in a place without one. And yet… you hear it.
They see you. They call out.
— "Omori!"
— "Hey, where were you? Come sit!"
— "We're going on an adventure!"
You don't speak. You never do here.
But you follow them. You walk beside them. And in their smiles, you feel a warmth you don't understand. One you dare not name.
You cross fields in impossible colors. Forests where mushrooms hum in quiet tones. Caves lined with distant stars.
And then, you arrive at Basil's house.
It's full of flowers, ceramic pots, and delicate frames. Photographs hang on the walls, lined up like memories too carefully arranged.
Basil is there. Holding a camera close to his heart. His smile is shy, but real.
— "I've developed some new photos!" he says, pulling them out one by one.
You look.
Faces. Laughter. You, Kel, Aubrey, Hero… Mari.
And him.
Always behind the lens. But sometimes, in the corner of a mirror, in a blurry reflection… he's there too.
— "See, Omori? These moments… they're precious. I don't want us to forget them."
You don't respond. But your eyes linger on a single photo. It trembles slightly in your hand.
Basil steps closer, lowers his voice:
— "But… sometimes, I feel like something's missing. Like there's a photo we forgot to take..."
The world slows. The air thickens. The picture in your hand blurs. The colors drip.
You blink.
Night. Too fast.
The sky falls into darkness like a curtain drawn too suddenly.
The others are gone.
You're alone.
And in the shadows, something crawls.
A shape. Black. Oily. Nameless. It watches you. Without eyes, without a face, but you know it sees. It knows. It remembers.
It creeps closer.
Your breath quickens. You step back. You shake.
No. You don't want to see. You don't want to remember. Not yet.
But it's there.
It rises.
And you fall.
You open your eyes.
White swallows you again.
You're back.
Sitting on the striped carpet.
The door is gone.
Silence returns.
Everything is the same.
Except for you.
You look at your hand. It still trembles. Just a little.
You reach for the sketchbook. Turn the pages. On a blank one, you begin to draw.
A face.
Dark hair. A soft smile. A gaze full of something lost.
Mari.
You don't know why.
But your pencil moves on its own.
And so does your heart.
To be continued…