Masahiro walked slowly, his hands buried in his coat pockets, as if every step was an effort. His face was serious, his eyes lost in space, he seemed absorbed in his deepest thoughts. He walked in silence toward what had been the family home for many years: a traditional-style house in the ancient heart of Kyoto, where he had spent his entire childhood.
Next to him, Lisa watched him discreetly. She had immediately noticed how much he had withdrawn into himself, as if this return had awakened something in him that was too painful to face. She gently placed a hand on his forearm and gave him an affectionate smile.
"Come on, Masahiro... don't sulk at me. You look like a child."
He turned to look at her, seriously.
"You know very well that I didn't want to come here."
"I know, I know..." Lisa replied, with an understanding tone. "But it's necessary. Now that your father is passed, the house is yours. And before we think about selling it, we need to empty it out."
She paused briefly, then added in a lighter tone
"Besides, it's been years since you've been here. Aren't you even a little curious to see how your childhood home has changed?"
Masahiro sighed, looking down, but his lips curled into a faint smile.
"I suppose you're right,"
he murmured, before leaning down to kiss her cheek softly.
In fact, it had been a long time since the two of them had set foot in Kyoto. And certainly not to visit Masahiro's father. Their relationship had always been tense, if not downright hostile. Although Masahiro was the ideal son in everyone's eyes—a brilliant student, well-established in the field of biology—his father had never paid him a compliment, nor shown the slightest pride in his accomplishments. Every attempt by his son to confront him had always ended in heated arguments, where words ended up hurting more than silence.
After moving to Germany, where he had started working and where he had met Lisa Weber, the visits had become more and more sporadic. In the last seven years, they had stopped altogether.
Then, in August, the phone call had come. Neighbors had contacted him to inform him that his father had died, at the age of ninety-two.
Now Masahiro was standing in front of the entrance to the house where he had grown up. He took the keys out of his pocket, and hesitated for a moment. Then he put the key in the lock and turned it. The door opened with a slight creak, revealing a long hallway shrouded in darkness.
He reached for the switch, but when he pressed it, nothing happened.
"There must have been a blackout in the past few days," he mused aloud.
He reached into his other pocket, the one opposite where he kept his keys, and pulled out his phone. He turned on the flashlight and pointed it in front of him, barely illuminating the inside of the house, while the familiar smell — dust, wood, memories — hit his nostrils like a distant echo of the past.
The parquet creaked under his footsteps, marked by scratches and dark stains. The furniture, chipped at the corners, looked like open wounds in the wood. The walls, once white, were now stained by humidity, with paint peeling off like dead skin.
Masahiro stopped, struck by the decay. He remembered everything newer, more alive. Only now did he realize how much time had passed.
Lisa placed a hand on his shoulder. He stood still, staring into the darkness of the hallway, lit only by the flashlight of his cell phone.
"Are you okay? Maybe we should reset the meter before we go in. What do you think?"
Masahiro shook his head, as if the gesture would wake him up.
"Yes… sure, I'm… I'm fine."
He scratched the back of his neck, searching for words.
"I haven't seen this hallway in a long time."
He looked at Lisa.
"You're right. We need to get the power back on."
Lisa smiled at him.
"I'll take care of it. In the meantime, you go inside and look at the rest of the house."
Masahiro nodded. Lisa gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and walked away toward the back of the building, looking for the meter.
He took a deep breath. A whirlwind of emotions washed over him. Pointing the flashlight ahead, he slowly walked down the hallway. The musty smell filled him, and the hardwood floors creaked under his footsteps.
At the end of the hallway, he turned left toward the living room. At that moment, the lights came on.
The scene that presented itself made his blood run cold. The kotatsu was thrown into a corner, destroyed. The blanket had been torn to shreds of fabric beyond repair, the pillows scattered and torn, the feathers scattered across the floor. The television, an old cathode ray tube, lay in the center of the room with its screen shattered, the little cabinet that supported it destroyed nearby.
"What the… fuck happened here?"