The Cursed Isle of Echoes

The cottage smelled faintly of damp wood and sea salt, the mist pressing against the windows as if trying to seep inside. Haruto sat hunched over the old table, his fingers resting near the delicate lock of Aiko's hair. Across from him, Akira carefully turned the brittle pages of Aiko's diary, her brows furrowed in concentration.

They had spent hours poring over the faded ink, piecing together the remnants of a woman long forgotten by time. The entries shifted between poetic longing and desperate prayer, each word laced with sorrow so deep it seemed to bleed from the pages.

Then Akira stilled. Her lips parted slightly as she traced the final lines with a gloved fingertip.

"I called the storm to bring him back. It took everyone instead."

Silence filled the space between them, heavier than any mist outside.

Haruto swallowed hard. "She didn't mean for this to happen."

Akira exhaled sharply. "No. But she wanted him back, no matter the cost." She leaned back, rubbing her temple. "Summoning a storm… it sounds metaphorical, but if the curse is real, then—"

A knock interrupted them.

Haruto stiffened. Three polite, rhythmic taps.

Not now.

The fireplace flickered, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. Akira reached for her bag, fingers tightening around the edge, but Haruto raised a hand. "Stay here."

He moved toward the door, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to step back, to let the knocking go unanswered.

But he had already seen what lay at the heart of the curse. He needed to face it.

Haruto exhaled and peered through the peephole.

She stood there, as she always did, draped in her lavender sweater, her posture warm and familiar. His mother. Or what wore her face.

But something was wrong.

The mist coiled around her shoulders like fingers pulling her apart. Her smile flickered, distorting at the edges. And then—

For the first time—

It changed.

Her skin cracked like porcelain, shifting—revealing something beneath. A second face, blurred and agonized, surfaced behind the one he knew. The eyes hollow with grief. The mouth parted in an unending whisper.

Aiko.

Haruto's breath caught in his throat.

The mother-entity raised a hand, fingers trembling, as if struggling to hold its form. "Haruto," she called softly, but the voice wavered, fractured. Not just his mother's voice anymore. Aiko's anguish wove through it like a second thread, unraveling.

He stumbled back. The presence behind the door shuddered, its shape flickering between two figures—his mother, then Aiko.

Then silence.

Haruto forced himself to move, to turn the lock with unsteady hands.

When he swung the door open—

The figure was gone.

Only the mist remained, curling at his doorstep. A single pressed hydrangea lay on the wooden floor, damp with sea spray.

Behind him, Akira spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

"She's breaking apart."