Morning light filters dimly through the paper sliding doors.

The smell of the futon in my childhood home. Perhaps my body hasn't quite remembered that I'm back for the first time in a year; for a moment upon waking, I didn't know where I was.

The cicadas' cry is so thick it feels like the storm last night was a lie, and the air carries the damp, sweet scent of grass.

Last night's events already feel half like a dream. The hair and teeth in the jar, the blood dripping from Menou's fingertip. On the way back, all three of us were strangely silent until Yoh just said, "That was stupid," and that was the end of it.

When Guest goes down to the kitchen, Grandma is nowhere to be seen. The house is far too quiet for morning; only the incense at the Buddhist altar sends up a thin trail of smoke. Maybe she's out shopping, or at the fields. During Obon, there are many neighborhood gatherings, so I don't give it much thought.

As I pour some barley tea, the sliding door at the entrance rattles.