The Cursed Isle of Echoes

The city buzzed with life—cars honking, footsteps echoing against wet pavement, and neon signs flickering to life as dusk settled. But inside Aiko's Hydrangea, the world felt quieter, warmer.

The small café, tucked between two aging bookshops, had become a hidden gem. Shelves lined with old novels and local art wrapped the walls, while the scent of fresh coffee and baked taiyaki filled the air. Clusters of potted hydrangeas—pale blue, soft pink, deep violet—bloomed at every corner, their petals vibrant even in winter.

I stood behind the counter, wiping down cups as rain pattered against the windows. Years had passed since Yurei-jima, but the memories had settled like the hydrangeas—rooted deep but no longer heavy.

"Another round, Haruto?"

I glanced up to see Mr. Tanaka, one of the regulars, waving his empty mug.

"Coming right up," I replied with a smile, pouring him another coffee.

The café had drawn a peculiar crowd—lovers of ghost stories, folklore enthusiasts, and those who just wanted a quiet place to sit and forget the city for a while. Ironically, they often swapped tales of haunted places over steaming drinks, completely unaware of the life I'd once lived.

"Did you hear about the ghost at the train station?" a young woman asked from a nearby table, her eyes wide with excitement.

Her friend leaned in. "I heard if you wait after midnight, you'll see a figure on the tracks, calling out for someone."

I chuckled quietly. Their stories never got it right—but that wasn't the point.

The bell above the door jingled, and Mika walked in, shaking off an umbrella. She had aged gracefully, her hair tied back, and a camera still slung around her neck.

"Busy tonight?" she asked, sliding into a seat at the counter.

"Just the usual ghost stories." I poured her a cup without asking.

She smiled, sipping it. "Funny, isn't it? How people chase ghosts, not knowing how close they really are."

I met her gaze, a silent understanding passing between us. She had gone on to write books, give lectures—her exposé on Yurei-jima had sparked real change. But here, we didn't speak of it. We didn't need to.

The rain deepened, soft but steady, tapping against the glass. And then, faintly, a knock echoed—three polite, rhythmic taps.

I froze for half a breath, the familiar chill brushing the back of my neck.

Mika noticed but said nothing.

I smiled, heart full, and continued wiping the counter.

The knock came again, softer this time.

I didn't answer. I never did. But somehow, I didn't mind that it still came.

A week later, a package arrived at the café—no return address, but the handwriting was unmistakable.

I opened it carefully, revealing a rolled-up canvas. Sora.

I unwrapped it, heart already swelling, and spread it across the counter.

The painting was gentle yet vivid—a quiet landscape of a stormless horizon, the sky painted in soft blues and golds. In the foreground, two figures walked hand-in-hand along a path lined with hydrangeas. One was unmistakably me, though younger, lighter somehow. Beside me was her—the mother-entity—her face serene, no longer twisted by sorrow or longing.

There was peace there.

I swallowed hard, brushing my fingers over the canvas.

Tucked inside was a note in Sora's familiar script:

"Some journeys don't end—they just find new paths. Thought you'd like to see the one you helped finish."

I hung the painting near the café's window, where the hydrangeas caught the afternoon light. Customers often admired it, commenting on the calmness it radiated.

But only I knew the truth behind it.

As the days passed, the knocks at the door grew fainter, until they disappeared entirely.

But I still smiled on rainy nights—just in case.