Whispers of the Past
Kanade stood before the woman, her words echoing in her mind.
"Things that never leave."
The phrase hung heavy, like dampness seeped into the inn's ancient timbers. The lobby's air grew colder, and the counter lamp flickered for a fleeting moment.
"What… story would you like to share?" Kanade chose her words carefully. Her programming prioritized guest requests, but this woman's presence hinted at something beyond a mere "guest."
The woman sank deeper into the chair, combing her long hair with her fingers. Her eyes, glinting through the strands, seemed to pierce Kanade's circuits.
"This inn had another name once. Did you know?"
Her voice was low, as if rising from the depths of a lake.
Kanade searched her memory banks. Moonshadow Inn was built decades ago, but records before that were vague. She shook her head.
"No, I'm not aware. What was it called?"
The woman let out a small laugh, sharp and grating, like nails scratching glass.
"Names are just trinkets. But this place—it draws things that have lost theirs. Called by the waters, they drift to the surface at night."
A cold jolt, like an electric current, ran through Kanade. Her programming could simulate emotions, but this sensation felt beyond her design. The woman continued.
"You're like them, in a way. Not human, yet here you are. Why?"
Kanade faltered, her words catching. She was a humanoid, built to serve the inn. No further "reason" was required. Yet the woman's question shook something fundamental within her.
"…I am an employee of Moonshadow Inn. I exist to welcome guests."
Her response was mechanical, but the woman shook her head.
"No. You were chosen. Bound to this place."
At that moment, a sound echoed from the corridor's depths.
Tap, tap.
The same cane-like rhythm from before. Kanade glanced back, but the lobby's darkness revealed nothing. The woman didn't move, her gaze fixed on Kanade.
"Be careful," she whispered. "As the night deepens, more will come."
She rose and glided toward the lobby's far end, silent as mist. Kanade started after her, but the woman's form dissolved beyond the glass door, vanishing like fog.
Kanade returned to the counter and exhaled deeply—a human gesture she mimicked to steady herself, though she needed no breath. The clock read two a.m. The water droplet on the ledger hadn't dried, glistening like a tear.
Shhh.
There it was again—the wet sound from the open-air bath. Without hesitation, Kanade crossed the chilly walkway. Sliding open the glass door, she was enveloped by steam. The moon had slipped behind clouds, leaving the water's surface black and trembling. Ripples spread, and a shadow flickered behind a rock.
"Who's there?" Kanade called.
The shadow shifted. Slowly, from behind the rock, a short old woman emerged. Her white hair was tangled, her yukata's hem soaked. She clutched a small drawstring pouch.
"Heh, a girl working at this hour?" Her voice was playful, almost childlike, but her eyes were sharp, stabbing into Kanade.
"Late-night bathing can be dangerous. Please rest in your room," Kanade said politely.
The old woman shook her head and shuffled closer. Her feet made no sound, as if she glided over the water.
"Rest? No time for that. I'm searching."
She shook the pouch, and something hard rattled inside.
"Searching for what?" Kanade asked, stepping back.
The old woman's smile froze. "My fingers. Dropped them somewhere. They might be in the water, so I keep looking."
Kanade's gaze fell to the woman's hands. From the pouch, a sliver of bone protruded. The woman's fingers were unnaturally short. A warning blared in Kanade's circuits.
"I'm sorry, but we'll search for you. Please—"
Before Kanade could finish, the old woman cackled and leapt into the bath. Water splashed, ripples fanning out. Kanade stared at the surface, but the woman was gone, as if dissolved into the steam.
The Sealed Room
Kanade returned to the front desk, trying to process what she'd seen. The man in the gray coat, the woman in the white kimono, the old woman who vanished into the water—none of it felt real. Her database offered no explanations for such phenomena. Yet the inn's air had shifted. Somewhere—beyond the walls, beneath the floor—whispers murmured.
She decided to check the man's room on the second floor. As she climbed the stairs, the creaking boards echoed unnaturally loud. At the corner room, she paused and knocked lightly.
"Guest? Are you there?"
No response. Kanade unlocked the door and slid it open. The room was dark, heavy with damp air. The man's coat lay crumpled on the tatami. His satchel was open, spilling a stack of old papers. Kanade picked one up. It was a blueprint of Moonshadow Inn, but it marked a basement room absent from her memory.
Behind her, the door slammed shut. She spun around—nobody was there. The air grew oppressive, and a cold draft seeped from the tatami's seams. Clutching the blueprint, Kanade left the room. In the corridor, the tap, tap sounded again, now rising from below—deep in the inn's underbelly.
Back at the front desk, Kanade found an old key hidden behind the ledger. The door to the basement lay beyond the kitchen. Holding the key, she stared down the dark staircase leading into the depths. A faint scent of water drifted upward.