The Veil of Night
Moonshadow Inn crouched deep in the mountains, nestled in a misty valley where fog slithered like a living thing. The wooden structure was weathered, its creaking corridors slicing through the night's silence. Steam from the open-air bath melted into the moonlight, curling upward like a ghost's breath.
Kanade, a humanoid born to serve, worked at the inn. Her face was strikingly human—black hair loosely tied, clad in a kimono as she stood at the front desk. But her eyes, distant and glassy, struggled to mirror emotion.
As the clock struck midnight, the counter was swallowed by shadow. Guests had retired to their rooms, and the staff slumbered in the back dormitory. Kanade alone remained, sorting ledgers in the stillness. The faint rustle of her fingers turning pages was the only sound.
Clack.
The sliding door at the entrance rattled softly. Kanade looked up. No one should arrive at this hour. She'd checked all reservations. Yet, through the glass, a blurred silhouette flickered.
"Welcome," she said, her programmed courtesy automatic as she stepped from behind the counter. Sliding the door open, she found a man in a gray coat, tall and lean, his face shadowed by a hat. He clutched a worn leather satchel.
"Is there a room?" His voice was low, like wind scraping through dry leaves.
"Yes, we have availability. Do you have a reservation?" Kanade asked, mentally reviewing the ledger.
The man didn't answer. He stepped inside, crossing the tatami-floored lobby without removing his shoes. Muddy footprints trailed behind him.
"No reservation. Just let me stay."
He stopped at the counter, peering at Kanade from beneath his hat. His eyes seemed to gleam unnaturally. A flicker of warning sparked in her circuits, but she dismissed it, forcing a smile.
"Of course. One moment, please."
Kanade opened the ledger, pretending to check for vacancies while studying the man. Water dripped from his coat, pooling on the tatami. It hadn't rained tonight.
"Your name, please…" She poised her pen over the page.
Before she could write, the man's hand shot out, seizing her wrist. His grip was cold, bony, inhuman.
"No name. Take me to a room."
His voice flattened, devoid of inflection. Kanade froze for a moment, but her programming—prioritize the guest—kicked in.
"…Very well. This way."
She led him to a corner room on the second floor. His footsteps made no sound as they climbed the corridor. Handing him the key, she watched him slip inside without a word, the door clicking shut. Kanade stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door. A chill slithered down her spine, though she couldn't say why.
Back at the front desk, she noticed a droplet of water on the ledger—impossibly, in a spot the man hadn't touched. She wiped it away and glanced at the clock.
One a.m.
The night stretched on.
Echoes in the Dark
As Kanade tidied the ledger, a sound drifted from afar. Tap, tap. Like a cane striking the floor. It came from the second-floor corridor. Had the man left his room? She strained to listen. The tapping grew closer, then shifted, as if descending the stairs.
"Is there something you need?" Kanade called toward the lobby's depths.
No answer. The sound stopped. Silence pressed down, heavy and thick. She stepped from behind the counter and stood at the base of the stairs. In the darkness, something seemed to stir.
Shhh.
Another sound—wet, like water being parted—came from the direction of the open-air bath. Kanade turned, peering through the glass door. Amid the steam, a shadow wavered. Late-night baths weren't unheard of, but unease gnawed at her.
She crossed the chilly wooden walkway to the bath, her bare feet tingling against the cold. Sliding open the glass door, she felt the steam brush her face. The bath was encircled by rocks, moonlight shimmering on the water's surface. But no one was there.
"Strange," Kanade murmured, eyeing the water. Ripples spread outward, as if someone had just slipped away. She scanned the surroundings. Beyond the rocks, in the shadowed bamboo grove, something seemed to stand. But when she focused, it was only the silhouette of a tree.
Returning to the front desk, she heard the counter bell chime softly. She turned to find a new guest—a woman in a white kimono, her long hair veiling her face. She carried nothing.
"Welcome. Do you have a reservation?" Kanade asked, keeping her tone steady.
The woman slowly raised her head. Her eyes were unnaturally large, like twin moons glowing in the dim light.
"I don't need a room," she said, her voice a whisper laced with quiet desperation. "I just want you to listen."
"Listen… to what?" Kanade faltered, caught off guard.
The woman sank into a lobby chair, claiming the space as if it were hers. "This inn," she said, "holds things that never leave."
Kanade met her gaze. The woman's eyes reflected nothing but darkness.