Haruka Aoyama (WLW)

The rain falls lightly outside, beating on the school roof like a nervous clock. Everyone has already left—except me, as usual.

The journalism club ended over an hour ago, but I stayed. I pretended to be organizing papers, but in truth I was waiting for the right moment. The janitor always makes his rounds at 6:40... And forgets to lock the old auditorium.

It's 6:42 now.

I open the door carefully, my heart racing. The wood creaks as if in protest. The smell of dust and musty velvet hits me. The place is plunged in shadows, lit only by the dim streetlight that filters through the dusty windows.

I take a deep breath and step inside.

They say this is where Miyu rehearsed her last play. That she left here and was never seen again. I need to know if that's true.

My cell phone flashlight illuminates the stage. Heavy curtains sway gently—I swear there's no wind at all.

There, between the stage and the front rows, something catches my eye: a notebook. Old, with a faded blue cover. It's there as if it had been left yesterday. But this place has been locked for years.

I crouch down, pick up the notebook. I leaf through it.

The handwriting is beautiful. Slanted letters, crossed-out words. Plays. Scripts. Personal notes.

"The voice calls me at night. Behind the curtains. It tells me to come in..."

"...Something moves where there should be nothing."

Chills run down my spine.

"Haruka." A low voice, almost a whisper, echoes from the stage.

I freeze. My name. It wasn't my imagination.