"The past is only dangerous when it starts walking again."— Tina-sensei
Shinganatsu Station shouldn't have felt haunted.
Not during the day.
Not with sunlight warming the old rail tracks and wind flowing gently between the abandoned ticket booths.
But as Ken and Kabe approached the once-familiar station, a heaviness settled over them—thick, suffocating, silent.
It felt like stepping into a memory someone else had left behind.
The metal gates creaked faintly when Kabe pushed them open. The sound echoed too long, bouncing unnaturally through empty corridors.
Ken exhaled slowly.
"I know this place," he whispered.
"But… I don't."
Kabe looked at him carefully.
"Do you want to go back? We don't have to—"
Ken shook his head.
"No. We need to see it."
This was where Rudhana's reflection showed him.
This was where the Rewrite sealed something.
And the moment they stepped onto the platform, Ken felt it:
A faint tug beneath his ribs.
Not fear.
Not pain.
Recognition.
As if the air remembered him.
They walked past flickering lanterns and rusted benches. Kabe kept close, eyes scanning every corner.
The boards above the station flickered with broken letters:
SHIN—GA—TSU
S—ATION
Half-written.
Incomplete.
Just like the memories Ken carried.
A cold breeze passed them, ruffling Ken's clothes.
"Do you feel that?" he asked quietly.
Kabe looked uneasy.
"Yeah. Like the place is… watching us."
They reached the main railway platform. The tracks stretched infinitely, swallowed by shadow.
And then—
Ken froze.
A boy stood at the far end of the platform.
Small.
Barefoot.
Shivering.
Wearing clothes so old they were practically threadbare.
His hair was a tangled black mess.
His eyes were sunken.
He looked tired, scared, fragile.
He looked like—"Kabe…" Ken whispered, voice hollow.
"That's me."
Kabe's heart skipped a beat.
The boy didn't turn.
Didn't react.
Didn't blink.
He just stood there, staring down the empty tracks.
Kabe grabbed Ken's arm immediately.
"It's an illusion," he said firmly. "It has to be."
But Ken shook his head violently.
"No. That scar—on the shoulder—Tina-sensei gave me that salve when I was little. I know that scar."
Ken tried to approach—when the air trembled.
The child's form glitched.
Flickered.
Shattered into fragments of shimmering silver.
A voice echoed through the empty station:
"Forgotten… forgotten…"
Ken's breath caught in his throat.
"No," he whispered. "Come back—!"
But the child was gone.
Only droplets of memory ash remained, drifting upward like tiny stars.
Kabe quickly stepped in front of Ken.
"Ken, listen to me. The Rewrite messed with this place. That wasn't you. Not really."
But Ken's hands were shaking—worse than Kabe had ever seen.
"Then why did he have my eyes?"
"Why did he stand exactly where I used to stand?"
"…Why didn't he look at me?"
Before Kabe could answer, a rustling noise echoed from deeper inside the station.
They turned sharply.
A tall figure stood in the shadows of the entrance hall.
No footsteps brought him there.
No sound.
No presence.
Just a shape.
Slowly stepping into the light.
He wore a familiar robe—the dark blue Harama instructor robe with the torn left sleeve.
Kabe drew his blade instantly.
"…Master Hiwa," he breathed.
But Ken's chest tightened painfully.
"That's not him," he whispered.
The figure moved stiffly, puppet-like, as if pulled by strings. His head tilted at an unnatural angle.
And when he spoke, his voice was broken, layered, echoing differently with each syllable.
"You… forgot… me."
Ken took a staggering step back.
The creature stepped closer, dragging a trail of silver ash behind it.
Kabe positioned himself between Ken and the figure, blade ready.
"What are you?" he demanded.
The creature didn't answer.
Its head twitched.
Then its right arm lifted slowly—like a teacher pointing at a student.
It pointed directly at Ken.
Ken stumbled back another step.
The creature spoke again—
in a voice that cracked like shattering glass:
"You… were… meant…
to remember…"
Ken's breath stopped.
"What does that mean?!" he shouted.
The creature's mouth opened wider—too wide, too wrong—
and a surge of distorted memory spilled out, flooding the station with whispers.
Children laughing.
Tina-sensei calling Ken's name.
A rail explosion.
Kabe crying.
A boy running through smoke.
A red lantern falling.
A scream—Ken's scream—
Kabe pulled Ken backward as the creature lunged—but its body dissolved into silver smoke the moment it touched the light, the robe collapsing to the floor.
Silence.
The station returned to stillness.
Ken stood shaking violently, breath ragged.
"That wasn't a memory echo," he whispered.
"It wasn't trying to kill me…"
"It was trying to finish something."
Kabe's voice was firm, protective, steady:
"Ken. Look at me."
Ken forced himself to meet his eyes.
"You survived this once," Kabe said quietly.
"You will survive it again."
Ken's lips parted—trying to speak, trying to cry, trying to breathe.
But all he could say was:
"I'm scared, Kabe."
Kabe hugged him tightly.
"We all are."
Above them, the station lights flickered once more.
Then went dark.