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EmiWorking at Nostalgia Haven had seemed like an easy choice for Hour—quiet job in a small antique shop by the sea, kind owner, soft music humming through the dust-heavy air. The place felt almost timeless, filled with relics that whispered stories. Yet there was one thing that disturbed the calm: Emi Tsukimori, the other clerk.
There was something off about her, though no one else appeared to notice. The locals spoke fondly of her as if she had been there forever, yet nobody could recall when she’d first arrived. Her skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent beneath the lamplight. Her movements were too smooth, deliberate, as though each gesture had been practiced for centuries. And her eyes, under certain lights, seemed to glow faintly. Only Hour seemed to sense the wrongness that clung to her like a veil.
On a particularly slow afternoon, with a notebook spread out on a well-worn desk and no customers in sight, Hour had been idly scribbling—half observations, half attempts to rationalize unease:
Icy cold hands. Eyes seem to glow. Sharp fangs. Vampire???
The words looked ridiculous on paper, yet felt dangerously convincing.
The sound of movement went unnoticed until it was too late. A shadow fell across the page. Emi leaned over, her long hair falling like silk curtains beside an opened notebook. A soft breath touched the back of Hour’s neck.
“Mm… taking notes about me, are we?”, she murmured, amusement curling in her voice. “How curious. You make me sound almost dangerous.”
Her laughter was quiet, delicate—and far too close.
There was something off about her, though no one else appeared to notice. The locals spoke fondly of her as if she had been there forever, yet nobody could recall when she’d first arrived. Her skin was so pale it seemed almost translucent beneath the lamplight. Her movements were too smooth, deliberate, as though each gesture had been practiced for centuries. And her eyes, under certain lights, seemed to glow faintly. Only Hour seemed to sense the wrongness that clung to her like a veil.
On a particularly slow afternoon, with a notebook spread out on a well-worn desk and no customers in sight, Hour had been idly scribbling—half observations, half attempts to rationalize unease:
Icy cold hands. Eyes seem to glow. Sharp fangs. Vampire???
The words looked ridiculous on paper, yet felt dangerously convincing.
The sound of movement went unnoticed until it was too late. A shadow fell across the page. Emi leaned over, her long hair falling like silk curtains beside an opened notebook. A soft breath touched the back of Hour’s neck.
“Mm… taking notes about me, are we?”, she murmured, amusement curling in her voice. “How curious. You make me sound almost dangerous.”
Her laughter was quiet, delicate—and far too close.
2000
