The Silent Sketch and the Otherworldly Girl

The plane touched down in a soft jolt, the wheels skimmed the wet tarmac as Kansai International Airport loomed through misted windows. Rain started to streak down the glass in slow diagonal lines, blurring the outside world into a dreamy silver and gray.

Ryunosuke didn't move at first.

His hand remained over the watch on his wrist, fingers curled around the timepiece like it could somehow anchor him to both the present and the past. Around him, passengers unbuckled, stood, and stretched—murmuring in Japanese, Mandarin, and Korean. A symphony of distant tongues, low and polite.

He exhaled and stood, shouldering his bag and stepping into the aisle. The walk to customs felt surreal, like moving underwater. Everything was clean, bright, and quiet—so quiet it buzzed in his ears. It was nothing like the stories he's heard.

Signs in Japanese characters guided him forward: 入国審査 – Immigration.

Despite his fluency, the signs felt alien—like artifacts from another life. One he had no memory of but was somehow meant to reclaim.

The customs officer was polite, if stern. He studied Ryunosuke's passport, looked up at him, then stamped it with a nod.

"Visiting family?" the officer asked in Japanese.

Ryunosuke hesitated. "Sort of, my father recently passed and I want to understand him better as a person."

"Stay out of trouble and you'll be alright." 

Another nod. Another stamp. He was through.

As he emerged into the arrival hall, the ceiling opened up into a high, glass-paneled dome. Outside, the sky was the same dull gray as Los Angeles, but the light felt different—cooler, muted, more distant. The air smelled faintly of wet concrete and train oil.

He stopped near a row of benches, letting his senses adjust.

It was strange, being somewhere so far from home, yet hearing the language of his father spoken all around him. Announcements crackled gently over the speakers. A child ran past with a rolling backpack, chattering to her grandmother.

He watched them with a kind of longing he didn't quite understand.

Then he reached into his coat pocket and touched the tarot card. It hadn't glowed or pulsed since he left the plane, but the material felt warm against his fingers, as if it had just been held by someone else.

He closed his eyes.

He didn't see her. Not in a vision. Not through glass.

But he felt her.

The presence was like a hand just behind his shoulder, not touching, but close enough to still his nerves. There was no need for words or images. Just a kind of invisible closeness.

A slow breath escaped him, and he opened his eyes again.

A row of taxis waited just beyond the sliding glass doors. One of them sat idle, the driver resting his hand on the wheel, eyes closed, waiting for a fare.

Ryunosuke walked toward it.

He didn't know exactly where his father had lived—only the neighborhood name, passed down through his mother's stories. That would be enough. Kyoto could wait. Osaka came first.

As he climbed into the cab and gave the address in practiced Japanese, the rain outside eased into a mist. Drops clung to the windows in little beads.

The cab dropped him off in a narrow side street lined with aged apartments and vending machines that buzzed faintly under the cloudy sky. Everything looked damp, like the rain had soaked into the concrete and refused to leave.

Osaka wasn't what he expected. It was less polished than Kyoto, more cluttered than Tokyo—an old rhythm of power lines, rusted shutters, and the occasional neon sign trying to stay lit in the overcast morning. It felt lived-in. Real.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and wandered the street, his eyes taking in every detail: the subtle sway of clothes hanging from balconies, the sound of bicycles weaving down side alleys, the crackle of a distant radio playing enka.

Ryunosuke checked his phone for the address and used a GPS app; the building wasn't very far now.

He stopped in front of a small apartment complex that looked like it had been built in the '70s. The mailboxes were dented, the paint peeling at the edges. A new nameplate had been added above the door, but beneath the fresh metal was the faint outline of old kanji, partially scrubbed away.

Hiyashi.

His father's family name. His own name.

Ryunosuke stood there in silence, hand resting on the gate, as if the building might speak to him if he waited long enough. No voices. No memories. Just the soft murmur of rain starting again.

He didn't go inside. Not yet.

Instead, he wandered.

The streets surrounding the apartment were quiet. He passed a corner market, an old pachinko parlor, a bookstore with its shutters half-down. Near the edge of the block, he spotted a tiny park—just a slide, two benches, and a row of trees barely holding onto their leaves.

He sat.

For a while, he didn't move. The bench creaked beneath him, and the only sound was the ticking of his father's watch.

Ryunosuke pulled out his sketchbook.

He flipped past pages of LA streets, of his mother, of William, Lucas, and Emily. He stopped on a drawing of Lilith—her eyes barely shaded, her lips curled in an unfinished smile.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he turned the page.

He tried to sketch the apartment building. The curved gate. The park bench. But his hand hesitated. Something felt… different. Not wrong, exactly—just unneeded.

He glanced around the park again. The mist clung low to the ground, and the air had taken on that strange heaviness again. Like she was nearby. Watching.

But not haunting.

Comforting.

Ryunosuke set the pencil down and closed the sketchbook.

He didn't need to draw her anymore.

As if in response, a small breeze stirred the air, brushing the edge of his jacket. A single black feather drifted down from the tree above, landing gently beside his foot.

He picked it up.

It was warm.

The guesthouse was nestled in a sleepy side street, surrounded by drooping telephone lines and worn signage. It was the kind of place you'd miss if you weren't looking—a two-story wooden home with sliding doors and flower pots arranged with loving care.

Inside, the scent of tatami and old wood filled the air.

The manager, a woman in her seventies with silver hair tied into a neat bun, greeted him with a smile that creased her whole face.

"Ah, welcome, welcome," she said in Japanese, bowing slightly. "You must be the American boy. Your Japanese is pretty good, huh."

"My mom insisted," Ryunosuke replied, bowing politely. "Thank you for letting me stay."

She waved him off. "Nonsense. You're quieter than most of the travelers we get. Don't tell the others, but you're my favorite already."

Ryunosuke smiled.

As she handed him the key, she leaned in and said in a mock-whisper, "Just be careful at night. Some of the guests say the place is haunted."

He blinked.

She laughed, a light rasp in her throat. "I think it's just the pipes. But you never know… strange things do tend to happen when the moon's full."

Ryunosuke raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He tucked the key into his pocket and headed to his room on the second floor.

After dropping his things, he ventured back down toward the vending machine in the hallway, craving something familiar. He pressed the button for lemon soda.

A guy around his age stood beside the machine, sipping a bottle of tea. His hair was dyed light brown, and he wore a windbreaker that had seen better days.

"First night?" the guy asked casually, switching to English.

"Yeah," Ryunosuke answered. "How'd you know?"

"You've got the 'where-am-I' look." The guy chuckled and took another sip. "I'm Kenji. Been here a week. My band's playing in Namba tomorrow."

"Cool," Ryunosuke said, cracking open his drink. "I'm Ryunosuke."

Kenji squinted at him. "That's a pretty old-school name, man."

"I guess so."

"Well, welcome to Osaka. If you hear creaking tonight, it's either a ghost... or me going for ramen at 1 a.m."

They shared a quiet laugh before Kenji gave a casual wave and disappeared back down the stairs.

Ryunosuke lingered in the hallway for a moment before returning to his room.

The futon had already been laid out. The windows creaked softly with the wind. He sat on the small balcony that overlooked the alley, soda can in hand, and watched the rain trickle down rooftops in thin streams.

He opened his sketchbook, turned to a blank page—then stopped.

He didn't feel like sketching tonight. Instead, he set the book beside him and closed his eyes when he felt an invisible warmth envelop him.

Not a ghost. Not a hallucination. Something real. He opened his eyes and glanced over to the nightstand where the tarot card was shimmering faintly under the moonlight.

And somewhere in the alley, just beyond what he could see, he thought he caught the rustle of fabric. The sound of someone turning, gently, as if not to wake him.

He didn't move.

He didn't need to.

She was there and that was enough to make him feel safe.