The Cursed Isle of Echoes

It had been a week since Yumi left, her absence like a gaping wound in my chest. Her departure hadn't just been about leaving the island—it felt like she had torn the last thread that connected me to the life I knew. The island, with its eternal mist and quiet, oppressive weight, was beginning to feel like my only reality.

Every night, without fail, the knock would come. Three polite, rhythmic knocks. And every night, the entity would be there—waiting.

It started with the smell of lavender, faint and sweet, like the perfume my mother used to wear. Then, there was the soft tap of porcelain on the floor, like the clink of a teacup being set down on a wooden table. At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. But it wasn't. It was real. The entity—my mother—was real.

On the third night, after the knock had echoed through the house, I hesitated for a long time before I opened the door. I shouldn't have. But there I was, standing in front of the door, my hand hovering above the handle.

When I opened it, she was there.

Her smile was warm, just like I remembered. Her eyes—her eyes—were the same gentle, unwavering gaze that had always made me feel safe. She was dressed in a lavender sweater, her hair tied back in a loose bun, just like she had in the years before the accident.

And in her hands, she held something small—something familiar.

A stuffed rabbit.

My childhood toy, worn and frayed at the edges, with one button eye missing. The rabbit that had always been with me, even when I was too old for toys. I stared at it, then at her, the words caught in my throat.

"I thought you might want him back," she said softly, her voice a balm that soothed the sharp edge of my panic. "He's been waiting for you."

I reached out, my fingers brushing the soft fabric. The rabbit. My rabbit. But when I touched it, something in me recoiled.

This wasn't real. This wasn't my mother.

But I couldn't bring myself to close the door. I just stood there, staring at the entity as it held out the rabbit like an offering.

And then, as if sensing my hesitation, the entity stepped back, her eyes flickering with a sadness that wasn't there before.

"Goodnight, Haruto," she said quietly, and with that, she was gone.

The rabbit was still in my hands, its weight a strange comfort.

The next night, it wasn't the stuffed rabbit that greeted me at the door. It was a pressed hydrangea.

The delicate blue petals were folded perfectly, their edges curling in on themselves, as though time had been suspended in that moment. I recognized it immediately. Hydrangeas. My mother's favorite flower. The one she had planted in the garden, the one she would tend to every spring with the same care she had given to me.

But this flower wasn't from the garden. It was new. Freshly pressed, yet with an almost unnatural crispness to it.

I didn't open the door right away. I stood there, my hand shaking as I peered through the peephole, waiting for her to speak, for her to say something.

But there was nothing. Just the silent gift.

I knew I shouldn't have opened the door, but I did anyway. When I stepped out, the air was thick, heavy with the scent of the hydrangea and the distant hum of the waves crashing against the shore.

The entity wasn't there. She had left the flower on the doorstep and was already gone.

I picked it up carefully, cradling it like a fragile thing. This… this was her way of reaching out. A subtle gesture, a reminder. The same way she used to leave flowers on the windowsill when I was a child.

But this time, there was something wrong with it. The edges of the petals were perfect, but there was a dullness to the color—an unnatural shade that made my stomach churn. It wasn't just a gift. It was a message.

The next morning, as I walked along the edge of the village, my mind replayed the events of the night before, my fingers still tingling from the contact with the hydrangea. I hadn't been able to stop thinking about it, or the stuffed rabbit. Both felt like traps. Comforting, but suffocating at the same time.

And then I saw her.

A girl.

She was standing by the old stone bridge near the edge of the village, her small frame silhouetted against the misty backdrop of the cliffs. She couldn't have been older than twelve, maybe thirteen. Her hair was dark and wild, falling into her eyes, but it wasn't the unruly hair that caught my attention.

It was her eyes.

They were dark, but not in the way you would expect. They were empty. As though something had hollowed them out, leaving only the faintest trace of recognition.

When she saw me, she didn't hesitate. She crossed the path with quick, determined steps, her bare feet making no sound against the ground.

"You're Haruto, right?" she asked, her voice unsteady, but not from fear. She spoke as if she had known me for years.

I nodded slowly, my unease growing. "Yeah. Who are you?"

"My name's Rin," she said, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. "I talk to the shadows."

The words caught me off guard. "Talk to the shadows?" I repeated, unsure if I'd heard her correctly.

She nodded again, her expression serious. "The lady who isn't your mother. She comes for you every night. But she's not real. She's just… a shadow. And shadows lie."

A chill ran down my spine.

"What do you mean? What do you know about her?" I asked, my voice shaking despite myself.

Rin didn't answer right away. She simply stared at me, her eyes narrowing as though she could see straight through me. "She's been pretending for too long. But if you keep letting her in, she'll take everything. And you'll never get it back."

The silence that followed felt suffocating, the weight of her words pressing down on me.

I wanted to say something—anything—but before I could open my mouth, she turned away, disappearing into the mist as quickly as she had appeared.

Just like that, she was gone.