The voice outside the door did not belong to a villager.
Haruki knew that much immediately.
Even half asleep beneath his blankets, he could hear it.
Calm.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
The kind of voice that made adults stop talking.
The kind of voice that made his father tense.
Haruki cracked one eye open.
Moonlight filtered through the small window beside his bed.
Beyond his room, muffled voices drifted through the house.
Too quiet to understand.
But loud enough to know something was wrong.
His heart beat faster.
Curiosity battled common sense.
Curiosity won.
Slowly, carefully, Haruki slipped from bed and crept toward the doorway.
The floorboards felt cold beneath his feet.
He peered around the corner.
His father stood near the entrance.
Aiko stood several steps behind him.
Neither looked relaxed.
The front door was partially open.
A cloaked figure waited outside.
Most of the stranger's face remained hidden beneath a hood.
Only a weathered jaw and pale eyes were visible.
The man looked old.
Not weak.
Old.
The difference was important.
Haruki didn't know why he thought that.
He simply did.
The stranger's gaze shifted.
For a brief moment, those pale eyes landed directly on Haruki.
The boy immediately froze.
A chill ran through him.
The man smiled.
Not warmly.
Knowingly.
As though he'd expected to find him there.
"That's him."
The words hung in the air.
Yukio immediately stepped between them.
"Enough."
The stranger raised both hands.
"I'm not here to cause trouble."
"Then leave."
A long silence followed.
Eventually the man sighed.
"You always were stubborn."
His attention shifted toward Haruki again.
"Just remember, Yukio."
The man's voice grew quieter.
"The blood doesn't disappear."
The words made no sense to Haruki.
Yet they clearly meant something to his father.
Something important.
Something dangerous.
Without another word, the stranger turned and vanished into the mist.
Gone.
Just like that.
Haruki blinked.
The road outside was empty.
As if the man had never existed.
The front door slid shut.
Silence returned.
Slowly, Yukio turned around.
His expression immediately softened.
"What are you doing awake?"
Haruki hesitated.
"I heard voices."
His father sighed.
Aiko knelt beside him.
"Bad dreams?"
"No."
Not entirely.
Haruki looked toward the door.
"Who was that?"
The question lingered.
Neither parent answered immediately.
Finally Yukio crouched beside him.
"An old acquaintance."
"You know him?"
"Unfortunately."
Haruki frowned.
That wasn't really an answer.
Before he could ask more questions, his father gently ruffled his hair.
"Back to bed."
The conversation was over.
At least for tonight.
The following morning felt strangely normal.
Breakfast.
Chores.
The sound of fishermen heading toward the docks.
Nothing seemed different.
Yet Haruki couldn't stop thinking about the stranger.
The blood doesn't disappear.
The words echoed in his mind.
What blood?
Whose blood?
Why had his father looked so worried?
The questions followed him throughout the day.
Eventually he wandered toward the small stream running behind the village.
It was one of his favorite places.
Quiet.
Hidden.
Far away from adults and their secrets.
The water flowed lazily over smooth stones.
Haruki sat near the bank and tossed pebbles into the stream.
Splash.
Splash.
Splash.
Each stone vanished beneath the current.
His thoughts drifted.
Back to the stranger.
Back to his father's lessons.
Back to all the conversations adults stopped having whenever he entered a room.
The more he thought about it, the more frustrated he became.
"I hate secrets."
The stream offered no response.
Haruki grabbed another pebble.
This one larger than the others.
He squeezed it tightly.
Very tightly.
"I wish someone would just tell me."
The pebble suddenly felt cold.
Very cold.
Haruki blinked.
His frustration disappeared instantly.
The stone in his hand was colder than the surrounding air.
Colder than the stream.
Colder than anything nearby.
Confused, he opened his fingers.
The pebble slipped into the water.
Splash.
For a brief second, the surface of the stream froze.
Not completely.
Not dramatically.
Just a thin patch.
A layer of crystal-clear frost no larger than a dinner plate.
Then it shattered.
Gone.
The current swept everything away.
Haruki stared.
His mouth slowly fell open.
The stream continued flowing peacefully.
As though nothing had happened.
Several seconds passed.
Then a minute.
Then two.
The frost never returned.
Haruki looked at his hands.
Then at the stream.
Then back at his hands.
"What?"
His pulse quickened.
Had he imagined it?
No.
He knew what he saw.
The water had frozen.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough.
A mixture of excitement and confusion bubbled inside him.
Without thinking, he reached toward the water.
Nothing happened.
Again.
Nothing.
A third time.
Still nothing.
The strange cold sensation had vanished completely.
Leaving only questions behind.
That evening, Haruki kept glancing at his hands.
At dinner.
During chores.
Even while getting ready for bed.
Aiko eventually noticed.
"What are you looking at?"
"My fingers."
"Why?"
Haruki hesitated.
For some reason, he didn't want to mention the stream.
Not yet.
"I'm thinking."
Aiko laughed.
"There it is again."
"What?"
"That answer."
Haruki grinned.
His father shook his head.
Yet beneath the smile, Yukio watched carefully.
Observing.
Studying.
Waiting.
Because he had noticed something too.
The air around Haruki felt slightly colder than normal.
Barely noticeable.
Barely measurable.
But there.
A trace.
A whisper.
A sign.
Later that night, after Haruki had fallen asleep, Yukio stepped quietly into his son's room.
Moonlight illuminated the sleeping boy.
Peaceful.
Innocent.
Unaware.
Yukio placed a hand gently against Haruki's forehead.
Nothing unusual.
No fever.
No illness.
Yet the old stories echoed in his mind.
The blood doesn't disappear.
The stranger had been right.
Yukio hated that.
Because earlier that day, while cleaning fishing equipment near the stream, he had discovered something impossible.
A thin layer of frost clinging to a stone.
Hours after the weather had warmed.
Hours after it should have melted.
His eyes settled on his sleeping son.
Fear twisted in his chest.
Not because Haruki was dangerous.
Because the world would think he was.
And sooner or later...
The world would notice.
Outside, snowflakes began drifting through the night sky despite the season.
Small.
Silent.
Unnatural.
Yukio watched them through the window.
Then looked back at his son.
The first frost had appeared.
And it would not be the last.