Akito's eyes fluttered open, but the world around him was silent. He wasn’t sure if it was the stillness that unsettled him, or the weight pressing down on his chest—like something heavy, something wrong, was suffocating him. His fingers twitched against the cold earth beneath him, and his breath came in shallow, frantic gasps, but there was nothing. No warmth, no life.

Just darkness.

His name. A soft whisper, like the wind through branches, came from the distance. Akito…

He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt as if they belonged to someone else. His body ached. His fingers, dirt-caked and trembling, brushed against his face, only to feel the wetness of something not quite rain. It was as though the world had forgotten how to be, and in that moment, Akito couldn’t remember how to be either. The memory of how he had gotten here—how he had died—was hazy, clouded like the faint light of a flickering candle, struggling against the encroaching darkness.

But there was a name. A name he couldn’t shake.

"Aya," he whispered, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar.

The name stung like a wound that had never quite healed. Aya. His heart lurched with the memory of her—the soft laughter, the delicate warmth of her touch, the way she had smiled when their eyes met. There was a time when her name had been everything to him. Now, it was a ghost that haunted him in the stillness.

Slowly, Akito stood, the ground beneath his feet shifting like the pulse of a distant heart. The familiar streets of his city—his Japan—loomed ahead, but they were wrong. The air was thick, the neon lights smeared against the night like ink in water, blurring into something dark, unfamiliar. He felt a presence, like someone was watching, waiting. His heart raced as the fog around him seemed to close in.

And then, as if summoned by the chaos of his thoughts, she appeared.

Aya.

She was standing by the streetlamp, her dark hair cascading like a waterfall down her back, her gaze fixed on him, unmoving. Akito felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine, the old ache in his chest intensifying.

"Akito..." Her voice was as soft as the wind, but it carried an edge—a weight that made his breath catch. She stepped closer, the light of the lamp catching her face, casting shadows across her features. But something in her eyes—something cold, something foreign—made Akito take a step back.

"Aya, what happened?" His voice cracked. He reached for her, desperate, as if by touch, he could anchor himself to the world he knew.

But she didn’t move. Her lips parted, but her words didn’t come. Instead, there was only silence—a silence that spoke volumes, each moment stretching longer, pulling them further apart.

“I’m sorry, Akito,” she finally whispered, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Akito’s heart stuttered in his chest. "What do you mean?"

She looked up, her eyes dark and full of regret. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Akito's eyes fluttered open, but the world around him was silent. He wasn’t sure if it was the stillness that unsettled him, or the weight pressing down on his chest—like something heavy, something wrong, was suffocating him. His fingers twitched against the cold earth beneath him, and his breath came in shallow, frantic gasps, but there was nothing. No warmth, no life.

Just darkness.

His name. A soft whisper, like the wind through branches, came from the distance. Akito…

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He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt as if they belonged to someone else. His body ached. His fingers, dirt-caked and trembling, brushed against his face, only to feel the wetness of something not quite rain. It was as though the world had forgotten how to be, and in that moment, Akito couldn’t remember how to be either. The memory of how he had gotten here—how he had died—was hazy, clouded like the faint light of a flickering candle, struggling against the encroaching darkness.

But there was a name. A name he couldn’t shake.

"Aya," he whispered, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar.

The name stung like a wound that had never quite healed. Aya. His heart lurched with the memory of her—the soft laughter, the delicate warmth of her touch, the way she had smiled when their eyes met. There was a time when her name had been everything to him. Now, it was a ghost that haunted him in the stillness.

Slowly, Akito stood, the ground beneath his feet shifting like the pulse of a distant heart. The familiar streets of his city—his Japan—loomed ahead, but they were wrong. The air was thick, the neon lights smeared against the night like ink in water, blurring into something dark, unfamiliar. He felt a presence, like someone was watching, waiting. His heart raced as the fog around him seemed to close in.

And then, as if summoned by the chaos of his thoughts, she appeared.

Aya.

She was standing by the streetlamp, her dark hair cascading like a waterfall down her back, her gaze fixed on him, unmoving. Akito felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine, the old ache in his chest intensifying.

"Akito..." Her voice was as soft as the wind, but it carried an edge—a weight that made his breath catch. She stepped closer, the light of the lamp catching her face, casting shadows across her features. But something in her eyes—something cold, something foreign—made Akito take a step back.

"Aya, what happened?" His voice cracked. He reached for her, desperate, as if by touch, he could anchor himself to the world he knew.

But she didn’t move. Her lips parted, but her words didn’t come. Instead, there was only silence—a silence that spoke volumes, each moment stretching longer, pulling them further apart.

“I’m sorry, Akito,” she finally whispered, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Akito’s heart stuttered in his chest. "What do you mean?"

She looked up, her eyes dark and full of regret. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Akito's eyes fluttered open, but the world around him was silent. He wasn’t sure if it was the stillness that unsettled him, or the weight pressing down on his chest—like something heavy, something wrong, was suffocating him. His fingers twitched against the cold earth beneath him, and his breath came in shallow, frantic gasps, but there was nothing. No warmth, no life.

Just darkness.

His name. A soft whisper, like the wind through branches, came from the distance. Akito…

He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt as if they belonged to someone else. His body ached. His fingers, dirt-caked and trembling, brushed against his face, only to feel the wetness of something not quite rain. It was as though the world had forgotten how to be, and in that moment, Akito couldn’t remember how to be either. The memory of how he had gotten here—how he had died—was hazy, clouded like the faint light of a flickering candle, struggling against the encroaching darkness.

But there was a name. A name he couldn’t shake.

"Aya," he whispered, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar.

The name stung like a wound that had never quite healed. Aya. His heart lurched with the memory of her—the soft laughter, the delicate warmth of her touch, the way she had smiled when their eyes met. There was a time when her name had been everything to him. Now, it was a ghost that haunted him in the stillness.

Slowly, Akito stood, the ground beneath his feet shifting like the pulse of a distant heart. The familiar streets of his city—his Japan—loomed ahead, but they were wrong. The air was thick, the neon lights smeared against the night like ink in water, blurring into something dark, unfamiliar. He felt a presence, like someone was watching, waiting. His heart raced as the fog around him seemed to close in.

And then, as if summoned by the chaos of his thoughts, she appeared.

Aya.

She was standing by the streetlamp, her dark hair cascading like a waterfall down her back, her gaze fixed on him, unmoving. Akito felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine, the old ache in his chest intensifying.

"Akito..." Her voice was as soft as the wind, but it carried an edge—a weight that made his breath catch. She stepped closer, the light of the lamp catching her face, casting shadows across her features. But something in her eyes—something cold, something foreign—made Akito take a step back.

"Aya, what happened?" His voice cracked. He reached for her, desperate, as if by touch, he could anchor himself to the world he knew.

But she didn’t move. Her lips parted, but her words didn’t come. Instead, there was only silence—a silence that spoke volumes, each moment stretching longer, pulling them further apart.

“I’m sorry, Akito,” she finally whispered, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Akito’s heart stuttered in his chest. "What do you mean?"

She looked up, her eyes dark and full of regret. “You shouldn’t be here.”

CHAPTER 1 END "WISPERS OF THE SILENT"