Yuto hid behind a shattered kiosk, breath stuck to his lips. The sky outside had lost all blue. Red clouds dragged heavy across the ruins of Tenka City. Before the Bellowing fell, he’d been a second year at a plain school—late homework, early crushes. Now, all that remained was rust and wind that seemed to carry mournful whispers. Who would even call this living?
Nana crouched near him, small flashlight in hand. Her older brother, Daisuke, watched from the alcove, his coat torn, hair white with dust. They spoke only in mutters. You ever been so scared you wish time would freeze? That’s been their normal since the source, or curse, began twenty-four days ago. Each night more people vanished, just flickering out, like old bulbs. This isn’t one of those ‘band together as friends and hope’ times. They barely trust any survivors they meet: words unravel too easy, like loose string. Daisuke said once, “This isn’t us running—it’s what’s left after you can’t run anymore.” Each day, can the city survive their fear?
Nana twisted the dial on the old shortwave, her hands shaking. “We can’t go north. New shrieks. They say Nekokawa Bridge’s just—gone.” Daisuke said nothing. Yuto stared under his cap. Should they stay and try the relay tower above the mill? Rumor said Saito’s crew got high ground and answers. And yet, going east you risked running into Groans: those infected moved wrong, knees bending backward, voices echoing another name in every syllable. “Why do the Groans remember names they never owned?” Yuto once asked. Nana shook her head. “Their souls didn’t move on. They’re caught.” Have you ever felt the world breaking right under your feet, with nowhere to hide?
That evening, the three stumbled into sliced silence between warped brick walls. The world offered so little now: ash, falling in thin lines, cut through a weak streetlight ahead. Someone muttered from above—a rooftop break. Ranger Yumi stepped out. Gun lowered, mouth tight. “I heard your radio. Show me you’re clean.” Daisuke stood. “Fine. Want proof?” He lifted his arm. Clean skin, no crawl of blackened veins. “Alright, follow me if you want to live past sunset.” North it was, toward the crooked mill where the last lights flickered. 
The trek grew steep. Glass crunched with every new step. You notice details in disaster: the quiet in plazas, far away dogs barking crazed, the almost tender tilt of crippled signs. Nana kept clutching her brother’s coat. Sometimes, it’s the feel of cloth, of anything familiar, that keeps you from cracking open. Behind them, wind pulled soft keening through empty offices—faint, like a lullaby set between deep rivers. “Twenty-five years I grew up here,” Daisuke said, barely more than a ragged hum. “Feels longer, when your house is dust.” Do you still dream of your childhood street when the world’s like this?
The radio caught its first strong scream at dusk, just past the shoe factory. Yumi pulled everyone behind stacked tires. “Groans nearby. Don’t point torches at their eyes. Makes them hunt.” Heads low, Nana counted breaths, then bled tears that she couldn’t stop. Yumi’s own story came spilling out, half-lost between actions. “My kid’s with my folks—God, I hope, anyway—it’s been a week. Does anyone get back what they lost?” You ever call out for family, when you’re sure only the night will reply?
A surge of groaning shatters the calm. Four silhouettes shuddered into view—limbs boneless, teeth rattling. Daisuke clutched Yuto’s arm. “Run.” They did. Nana pulled the others toward a back alley, veiled in caving corrugated steel. Hands slipped, shoes stumbled on waste bins. Yumi fired, strobe-lit faces shuddered into stillness, and then two Groans dropped while others scattered. Locked in frantic motion, the four made it to the broken bikeshed behind the mill yard. They fell silent. Only breathing—fast, loud, real—and Yumi covered the rear door. 
Sometime before dawn, hunger pushed Yuto outside. Alone, for just a second. He saw lights rippling upstairs—a signal, he guessed? Nana joined, keeping quiet. In the ghost of an empty window, two figures flash-traced a strange hand sign. Old letters—part of a message. Daisuke signed the next bit from inside; Yumi used her phone light to draw a sigil onto glass fog. It’s a marker from the time Before—some sort of ward, maybe a warning. “Don’t step in. Risen inside.” Far side of the yard, pale-feathered crows turn as if agreeing. Yuto draws Nana back, too spooked to speak.
Dawn drags in. In the spinning first light, they sneak upstairs—remnants of Saito’s old crew pinned to the lintel, eyes black-ringed, faces frozen in horror. A battered folder beside the door: inside, newsprint covered in code, weird geometric maps, warnings scrawled in shaky hands. Yumi reads quietly, her voice choked. “Source near river. They drain, not just seek. Everyone warned. Can’t stop the Rot without the key.”
Outside the window, something sketches a shape into the mist—huge, slow moving, unseen except in the waver of fog and shadow. The group freezes. Yuto finds his hand locked with Nana’s. If sound itself can splinter, then this scraping drags it loose. And yet—they have to go to the source, even if it eats what’s human inside you.
Their last message, hastily left on the radio: “This is Tenka. Last safe night. Heading for river source. If anyone hears—bring the old songs. Those keep the dark back.” Batteries die. Mist seeps in around cracks. Groans gather like drawn moths below. Will the children of light reach the source or are they, too, only memories?
To be continued.
