Shinrabansho: Myriad Souls

2.85: A Mirror at the Door

Haruka woke with her cheek pressed against a stack of graded papers. For a few seconds, she had no sense of where she was. The room felt unfamiliar, too quiet, too still, until the soft humming of the fluorescent lights overhead and the faint smell of chalk and paper began to help her piece things together. Rows of desks slowly resolved into focus.

… I’m in classroom 2-B…

She straightened gradually, her fingers brushing the edge of her desk as memory returned to her not in a single moment but in overlapping layers, of standing near the gym’s doors earlier, her arms folded, watching the play from the shadows. Observing their discipline. Admiring their timing, the way they carried the stage with confidence.

Oh… I got to see it after all… for some reason I thought that I…

Recalling the play as it unfolded onstage pride filled her chest.

Her gaze drifted to the room’s clock. It was later than she had planned to stay. She must have come back here to finish grading before her Sunday work and simply... drifted off.

Music pounded outside. Drums were struck from time to time, and the roar of an excited crowd rose from downstairs and through the open windows. Even the delicious smell of festival food had reached into the school.

Haruka rose and moved through the classroom with slow steps. Right now she didn’t have to be their teacher, one of the rare moments where she could finally relax. Her attention caught on the small cage by the windows.

“Ah,” she murmured to herself.

Pon-chan was curled up inside, a compact puff of fur and tail, fast asleep. Out of habit, the same instinct that guided her on quiet weekends, she crouched and opened the latch to tidy his bedding.

The moment her fingers brushed the tray, Pon-chan startled awake.

His tail fluffed dramatically, doubling his size. He froze, his eyes locked on her, then scuttled backward into the corner of the cage, chittering in alarm.

Haruka immediately stilled.

“It’s all right,” she said softly, her voice easing into the gentler cadence she used when she wasn’t teaching or correcting her students. “It’s just me.”

Something shifted behind his eyes.

Recognition.

Memory surged back into her all at once, standing at the doors as the play concluded, the cheers rolling through the gym, her students flushed with adrenaline and a sense of achievement. She remembered the way the audience had leaned forward, the way the energy in the room had held long after the curtains fell.

They were her students up there, performing. Her people.

The lingering feeling of disorientation faded.

Pon-chan crept forward again, his tail still puffed but his body language was no longer defensive. When she spoke to him once more, he relaxed fully, curling back into himself as if reassured by something neither of them could quite name.

She idly wondered why Pon-chan only ever climbed onto Shinohara Sumire’s shoulders.

Maybe, at the end of the year, he should go home with her… assuming she accepts him.

She finished tidying the cage and closed the latch. Only then did she notice a yukata folded neatly over the cabinet.

She blinked. Then frowned.

“I don’t remember bringing a yukata with me.”

Crossing the room, she laid a careful hand over the soft fabric, letting her fingers linger as she examined it.

“It’s lovely.”

She hesitated, then smiled faintly as understanding stirred.

Today hadn’t just been about the play.

It was the school’s annual cultural festival.

As she lifted the yukata, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. She set the garment aside and bent to retrieve it, unfolding the note with mild curiosity.

Enjoy the festival, Kurosawa-sensei.

You deserve it.

—An anonymous admirer

“As I thought,” she murmured. “This yukata isn’t mine. It’s from an anonymous admirer…?”

Her frown lingered only a moment before softening. Though she didn’t remember planning to enjoy the festival herself, something in her seemed perfectly willing to accept the invitation.

Not quite yet, however. A few papers still waited.

She returned to her desk and finished grading briskly and efficiently, stacking the remaining work neatly to one side. The rest could wait for tomorrow.

The room was quiet and empty. Neither this floor nor the third floor was being used for cultural festival events. All the activity was confined to the left wing of the first floor, where students were running a haunted house and a café.

Everyone would be busy with the festival. No one should wander up here now.

“I’ll change now and wear it home later,” she decided, and then paused.

Home… where is that?

Her brow furrowed as she rubbed her lips thoughtfully. After a moment, a small smile returned.

“Very well,” she said to the empty classroom. “I’ll go with the flow.”

She returned to the yukata and hesitated only briefly before undressing. Her cardigan slipped from her shoulders, followed by the slow unbuttoning of her blouse. Cool air brushed her skin pleasantly as she stepped out of her skirt and folded it with care.

She stood in her bra and panties, reaching for the yukata—

—but then the door slid open.

Four figures entered, chatting softly.

Shinohara Sumire.

Kurobane Aoi.

Tachibana Riko.

Arisugawa Yuna.

All of them were wearing their yukata.

A distant, orderly part of her mind catalogued their names before recognition fully caught up.

For half a second, no one breathed.

They froze, staring at each other.

Sumire flushed crimson, her eyes darting everywhere except where they very clearly wanted to go. Yuna remained composed, her lips already curving with soft amusement. Riko’s face went beet red, her reaction direct and unfiltered. Aoi hovered just behind Sumire, strangely withdrawn, her hands tucked into her sleeves.

Sumire’s yukata was deep indigo, patterned with pale blossoms. The fabric hugged her frame more than she likely realized, her sleeves falling loose at her wrists. Aoi wore soft cream with faint silver threading that caught the light when she moved, her obi tied neatly and adjusted with quiet care. Yuna’s black yukata carried understated geometric patterns, worn with her usual calm confidence. Riko, predictably, had chosen bold red, her obi knotted to emphasize her waist and doing absolutely nothing to hide her curves.

Haruka took the situation in a distant way, the way one notices a painting while remaining very still.

“Sorry, Sensei,” Sumire said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “I just wanted to make sure Pon-chan was properly fed tonight. He escaped his cage again earlier.”

“Did he?” Haruka’s lips curved with mild amusement as she glanced at Pon-chan. “He’s always been quite the escape artist.”

She considered asking whether Pon-chan might go with Sumire at the end of the year, but then decided it could wait.

Riko’s composure failed completely.

Her gaze locked on her, slid away, but locked back again.

Yuna giggled and bowed. “Sorry, Sensei. We’ll leave.”

Sumire flushed harder, her lips twitching despite herself.

Aoi said nothing. She remained just behind Sumire, her eyes shadowed, clearly processing something heavier than simple embarrassment. That troubled Haruka.

I wonder what happened to make her look like that?

Of all her students, Kurobane Aoi was the least likely to unravel.

“It’s all right,” Haruka said calmly, setting the thought aside for later. “Pon-chan has already been taken care of.” She gestured lightly toward the door. “We’re all women here. There’s no need for such embarrassment. Would you mind guarding the hall while I finish getting changed, just in case any male students wander up this way?”

“Yes, Sensei,” Sumire replied at once, retreating into the hallway.

Riko, however, didn’t budge.

Yuna solved that by grabbing Riko’s ear and hauling her bodily outside.

“I didn’t do anything!” Riko protested, thrashing the whole way as she was dragged away.

Haruka allowed herself the smallest smile.

She’s an interesting girl. I always had a feeling that she had a tiny crush on me.

She laughed lightly as she dressed slowly, letting the silk slide over her skin, adjusting the collar and tying the obi. Her own yukata was pale violet with wisteria patterns. It was elegant, understated and beautiful.

When she finished, a peculiar feeling lingered.

It wasn’t that she felt an obligation to supervise her students.

She wanted to participate in the cultural festival.

Haruka lifted her purse from her desk and slung it over her shoulder, then slid the door open to find the girls waiting together. Riko noticed her immediately and flushed again.

“I’m sorry, sensei,” she bowed.

Yuna smiled, clearly entertained. “Would you like to accompany us, sensei?”

Haruka paused for only a moment.

“…That would be fine.” She beamed.

We headed downstairs together. Kurosawa-sensei walked by our side, at ease. It felt almost as if she were a student too. She didn’t hover, and she didn’t lag a step behind us. She clearly hadn’t come along to supervise.

She matched our pace easily, her sleeves swaying with each step, her gaze drifting over the decorations with the curiosity of someone seeing the festival for the first time rather than having helped organize it.

“Sensei,” Riko said, glancing sideways with a grin she made no effort to soften, “you look really different like this.”

Haruka arched her brow. “Is that meant to be a compliment?”

“Yes, Sensei,” Riko replied brightly.

“I thought you were focused on Sumire-chan right now,” Yuna said, her lips twisting faintly.

Riko’s face colored and she said nothing.

I snorted before I could stop myself.

The stairwell spilled us into the lower corridor, and the sounds of festivity hit us in waves. Voices layered over more voices. Laughter burst and faded. Music clashed from two different directions. Paper lanterns lined the walls, some crooked, some sagging, all glowing warmly. The smell of fried batter and sugar hung thick in the air, drifting in from outside through the open front doors.

We slowed as we passed the haunted house classroom. Black cloth draped across the doorway, cobwebs stretched between desks just visible inside. A group burst out laughing and screaming, one student clinging dramatically to another as they spilled back into the hall.

Riko tilted her head, her eyes lighting up. “We could—”

Aoi shook her head. “Not me, but by all means, feel free to go in.” Her nod was small, her gaze already turning away from the doorway.

“Not me either, Riko-chan.” I squeezed Aoi-chan’s hand gently. “We’ll find something more relaxing to do.”

“Oh.” Riko dropped the idea at once, looking at Aoi. “Yeah, it’s probably not that scary inside anyway. Okay, let’s go.”

Yuna stepped in smoothly. “Yes. I think that we’ve had enough frightening surprises for one day.”

I felt something unclench in my chest at how easily it went unsaid.

“Okay,” I said, pointing ahead. “I vote for doing something cute instead.” I grinned.

The bell over the next doorway chimed loudly as we stepped inside the classroom turned cross-gender maid café, and chaos inside greeted us like an enthusiastic slap to the face.

“Welcome home, my lieges!” a boy in a frilly apron declared, curtsying so deeply he nearly toppled over.

Another passed us, taller and composed, his makeup weirdly immaculate. He glided by with a tray full of things, his stockings perfectly straightened, his movements carefully cultivated. Cheers followed him as he went.

Riko stopped dead, horror written all over her face like she had wandered into the haunted classroom by mistake. “Oh no.”

“Oh, yes. You didn’t know what kind of maid café they were running?” Yuna said, her eyes glittering as she nudged Riko with her elbow.

“No…” Riko muttered, crossing her arms.

The girls serving wore sharp butler uniforms, their vests fitted just enough to make the look nearly convincing. Their chests were bound, some tighter than others. Matching white gloves rested neatly against their knees as they bowed. One snapped her fingers and announced, “Tea service for our honored guests, most of our Madonna senpai from 2-B and Haruka-sensei,” she said as if introducing royalty.

That was something only the boys said, let alone kohai.

Not bad acting, anyway! I laughed softly.

Kurosawa-sensei covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking faintly. “I see that no one held back in this classroom.”

We were ushered to a small table near the wall. Tea arrived in mismatched china, steam swirling upward, followed by delicate slices of cake that looked almost too perfect to eat.

“They must have a very talented baker in this class,” Yuna said, poking her cake gently with her fork. “I would love to get to know them! It’s very moist. Impressive.” She cut it with her fork and elegantly wrapped her lips around the tongs. “Mmm.”

Riko leaned back in her chair, surveying the room. She shook her head, then giggled, visibly more at ease. “I guess girls in boys’ clothes aren’t too bad.”

Her gaze lingered on one particularly bishōnen butler, and the abrupt reversal made all of us stare at her.

“You changed your mind surprisingly quickly, Riko-chan,” Yuna said.

“Eh… that butler’s look isn’t bad at all. I bet I could pull that off.”

“You could… with a good wig,” I said, laughing softly. “What made you so hesitant to begin with?”

“Eh? Well… the maids don’t exactly stir my heart.”

“More like your loins,” Yuna giggled.

“Shut up, you,” Riko snapped.

“What about that one?” I asked, grinning as I pointed to the second maid I’d noticed, the tall, strangely convincing boy with perfectly adjusted stockings.

“That one worries me the most,” Riko said, crossing her arms and frowning.

“You could simplify things a lot by trying to be more consistent,” Yuna whispered, far too loudly.

“Zip it,” Riko muttered, glancing at me for just a moment.

Riko picked up her cup, took one sip, and then immediately set it down so she could throw one arm out in a grand sweep. “No, no, no. You’re all forgetting how magnificent I was.”

“You mean how you were overacting,” Yuna said.

“That’s you,” Riko muttered. “Not me.”

“That kiss was a little too convincing.” Yuna’s lips twisted as she sipped tea.

“It was a yuri story. A kiss with a little tongue only enhanced the scene,” Riko quipped.

“A little? It was a LOT.” I blushed.

A number of the maids and butlers stared, and I wanted to crawl under my chair.

Riko ignored it all and sat up straighter, already launching into an animated retelling of how I fought the dragon and then the shadow. She slashed one hand through the air to mimic my broken sword, then spread both hands wider as she got to the part where I drove my knee up that last time and got free of its clutches, nearly knocking her fork against the plate.

“That was not how Sumire held her sword,” Yuna said dryly. “Unless your imitation of her was meant to look confused, that is.”

“It was what I saw from that sofa.”

“True. I didn’t see much different from where I stood, but your impression of her fighting wasn’t as good.”

Riko gasped, then doubled down, one hand to her chest, the other pointing at an imaginary dragon somewhere near the ceiling. “At least I was radiant as Princess Aurora.”

“You seemed a little windy when you gave your little speech to the villagers,” Yuna corrected.

“Those were my lines! What about you? ‘Choice is as a candle in the wind,’” Riko proclaimed dramatically, not managing to sound as threatening as Yuna had on stage.

I laughed before I could stop myself.

Aoi listened at first, quiet, then laughed softly, as if the sound surprised her. When Riko caught it, she beamed.

“There it is,” Riko said gently to Aoi. “Made you let go of some of that anxiety, my rival.”

Aoi ducked her head, smiling as her shoulders eased. “You’re as loud as ever, Riko.”

“You’d just ignore me if I stayed quiet,” Riko shrugged.

“Pft.” Aoi smirked. “Speaking of rivalry… I hear you’re very good at playing Tekku.”

Riko laughed and stretched lazily. “I guess. I’d never played it before going up against Sumire-chan’s little brother.”

Aoi’s eyes narrowed with interest. “That’s even more interesting. I’m definitely buying a GS5 and a copy of that game.”

“Ohhh… is that a challenge, Aoi?” Riko rested her hands behind her head, her smirk firmly in place.

“It is on,” Aoi said, grinning back at her.

“Yeah… I want a rematch too, Riko-chan,” I said, glancing between them. “Ne, if you can’t afford a GS5, Aoi-chan, we could always borrow Haru’s.”

“You got it.” Riko’s grin sharpened. “I’m looking forward to it. But if I win, I have a condition.”

“What?” I blinked.

“It’s simple. You do whatever I want, Sumire-chan. And if you win, I’m all yours.” Riko fluttered her lashes.

“What?” Heat rushed to my face. “No. No conditions! I just want a rematch!”

Aoi eyed Riko with tight lips. “You’ll have to beat me first. That won’t be so easy.” She squeezed my knee under the table. She was back to her usual self, reassuring, strong, and loving.

DOKI-DOKI

Haruka-sensei sighed and smiled, nodding. “That’s the spirit, girls.”

Aoi turned to me, her expression serious despite the smile. “There’s a problem with that. I doubt your brother would want to give up his GS5 for very long, Sumire.”

“Yeah. It’s his most precious possession,” I said, nodding. “But we could at least play it in his room again.”

“Nah. He’s probably still too traumatized to invite me back,” Aoi said flatly.

I giggled and leaned into her and she put her arm around me.

“Oh… what happened?” Riko asked, leaning forward.

“Aoi-chan kicked his ass much more dramatically than you did,” I said, amused. “She toyed with him until he raged and ran off.”

Riko blinked, then laughed. “Now I’m getting a little nervous about this.”

“My treat,” Kurosawa-sensei said. “I’m glad to see everyone in good spirits. I was worried for no good reason, it seems.”

“Worried? Why?” Yuna asked.

“It’s probably nothing.” She removed her wallet from her purse and counted out yen after checking the menu.

“We can’t let you do that, Sensei!” I exclaimed.

“Are you volunteering to pay?” Haruka-sensei asked, smiling.

I blushed and bowed. “...I spent everything I saved last month.”

“Then I guess it’ll be me,” Aoi said with a shrug.

“Argue with me later,” Haruka-sensei said firmly, slapping the notes onto the table.

“No fair,” Riko protested. “You didn’t even let me offer.”

“I didn’t see you volunteering,” Yuna smirked.

“Shut up, you,” Riko muttered.

Yuna giggled softly behind her hand.

We stepped back into the corridor together, lantern light washing over us as festival sounds and scents drifted in through the open front doors. In the genkan by the shoe lockers, someone shouted in triumph over a prize they’d just won outside. Music drifted unevenly through the doorway.

As we walked, I reached for Aoi-chan’s hand and squeezed it, feeling lighter.

Thank you, Baku-san. Please keep protecting our dream.

Kagami-no-Kami did not announce her arrival. Her stunning white hair moved in the air currents as she walked gracefully. Her eyes were foxlike. A mask covered half of her face.

The path to Baku’s home bent subtly between stretches of bamboo as she approached. His home loomed ahead, an enormous, sculpted likeness of an elephantine head, its tusks forming archways, its trunk curled into a grotesque suggestion of a smile. The structure seemed to breathe faintly, the illusion of life maintained by magic and dreams.

She stopped before it, gazing at it thoughtfully.

Then the house moved.

The massive stone jaw creaked open with a grinding groan, its tusks shifting as the mouth yawned wide. The darkness inside thickened, coiling, and then—

It snapped shut.

The bite was sudden and violent, meant to terrify a visitor. Stone teeth crashed together where Kagami-no-Kami had stood.

She blurred into motion, no longer there.

The illusion shuddered.

A heartbeat later, the illusion of being alive faded into mist and the stone façade collapsed back into an inert architecture. The magic recoiled.

Kagami-no-Kami stood a single step forward from where she had been, untouched. Her expression had not changed.

She raised one hand and knocked.

Once.

Twice.

The sound echoed far deeper than it should have, reverberating through halls not meant for mortal ears.

There was a pause.

Then footsteps.

The door opened.

Baku stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in that well-kept nineteenth-century suit that he’d been fond of ever since, his top hat held politely in one gloved hand. His elephantine head tilted slightly as he regarded her, his trunk curling.

“Kagami-no-Kami-sama,” he said smoothly. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Her gaze passed over him without acknowledgment, slipping past the doorway and into the depths of his home. It felt invasive, as though she were already cataloging what she would later judge.

“May I come in?” she asked.

It was not a request.

Baku hesitated for the smallest fraction of a moment, barely perceptible.

“Of course,” he said, stepping aside.

She entered.

The air inside felt denser immediately. Kagami-no-Kami stopped just inside the threshold and turned to face Baku.

“A couple of humans were found dead recently,” she said. “Their faces were removed. Their identities were erased.”

Baku’s trunk twitched once.

“A terrible business that,” he replied. “Humans are so fragile.”

“One of them was scheduled to receive a visit from you,” Kagami-no-Kami continued calmly. “His name appears in your records and you were granted permission to enter the humans’ world.”

Her eyes lifted to his.

“The two died after you arrived.”

Silence settled between them.

Baku let it stretch, long enough to seem natural, short enough to avoid suspicion.

“How unfortunate,” he said at last. “I would never interfere with another entity’s duties. You know that.”

“Do you believe that tearing off human faces and taking their lives is an official yōkai duty?” she asked.

“Of course not. The Yōkai Society strives for stability and peace with humanity.” He inclined his head. “I misspoke. I meant only that I possess no powers beyond the obvious. I am an architect of dreams, a devourer of nightmares. While I could consume human minds, I have no desire to do so.”

He shook his head once.

“True,” Kagami-no-Kami said sharply. “You have no record of that sort of behavior.”

“Exactly. Another yōkai most likely preyed on those poor humans after my visit,” Baku muttered.

“The timing is far too precise to be coincidence,” her voice remained level, but the pressure returned, that sensation of a mirror held too close, reflecting not appearances but intentions.

Baku smiled genially.

“Please,” he said, gesturing inward. “This is hardly a conversation to have standing in my doorway. Allow me to prepare tea.”

Kagami-no-Kami studied him for a long moment.

Then she inclined her head once.

“Very well,” she said. “Let us speak… over tea.”

Baku turned toward the interior of his home, his back to her for the briefest instant.

He did not see her eyes narrow.

And she did not miss the way his walking was a touch too quick.

The door closed behind them.

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