Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Portrait of the Deceased

After leaving the "Su Yu Bookstore," even upon returning home, Mana Mizuhara could not shake off her confusion, her mind still full of questions.

But once she opened the door and faced her parents' interrogation, Mana had no space left to keep pondering the events at the bookstore—

“…Mana, where have you been?”
“…Why are you home so late—”
“…Do you know how worried we were about you…”

Faced with her parents’ barrage of concern and reproach, Mana spent ages deflecting their questions before finally escaping, utterly exhausted, into the family bathtub. Immersed in hot water, her fatigue eased somewhat.

“Sigh…”

Mana gazed at the pendant she had carefully placed beside the tub. For a moment, she felt as if she were living in another world.

“So much happened in just half a day…”
“Ryoko took me to ‘Su Yu Bookstore’—I returned there to read ‘The Wisdom of Hermes’—I was given a pendant—then after leaving the bookstore, I witnessed bullying at school, brought Miu Ito back to treat her—then the store manager and Miu said all sorts of strange things…”
“…Ah, it almost feels like I’ve wandered into the otherworld of a light novel.”

Hugging her knees, Mana sank lower into the water, submerging half her head—her favorite pose for relaxing during a bath.

In the gentle warmth, the bright lights, and the steamy haze, Mana’s mind drifted into a comfortable sluggishness—

“…I forgot to ask which grade Miu is in… Well, I’ll find out tomorrow…”

…

While Mana Mizuhara was relaxing completely in her warm bathroom, in Tokyo’s Arakawa Ward, Miu Ito slowly approached a building whose wallpaper was peeling and whose dim lights barely illuminated rusted iron stairs leading to the main entrance.

Her steps seemed weak, her balance uncertain. On a normal day, she might have collapsed on the street, but tonight, a strange warmth in her chest drove her on. Miu managed to walk all the way from the bookstore, over five kilometers.

Her foot pressed onto the iron stairs, which creaked with a painful sound. The closer she came to the door, the stronger the stench grew—a mix of cheap incense and something rotten. Most people would gag at the smell, but Miu’s expression didn’t change.

She was used to it.

More than that, this was home.

Light seeped through the cracks in the door; it was past midnight, and most households would be asleep, but sounds could still be heard from within. Miu was long accustomed to such things.

She took out her key from the pocket sewn into her skirt, reaching to unlock the door—but just as the key was about to enter the lock—

Click.

The door opened.

A tall figure stood in the doorway, looming over her.

Miu looked up and saw the man, his clothes disheveled, his face flushed with drunkenness, clearly having drunk heavily. Yet the moment his eyes fell on Miu’s face, the leering malice in his gaze changed suddenly to surprise and disgust.

“Ugh… well—
…You must be the ‘Amatsu Onna’ daughter of that Nami everyone’s talking about in the cult—your appearance is decent, but what a waste… tsk tsk.”

He belched, shook his head, brushed past Miu, shuffling out in battered slippers, stumbling off into the night.

Miu quietly turned, watching his figure descend the iron stairs and vanish. She then closed the door behind her and changed shoes in the entryway.

Inside was a narrow living room, its wallpaper yellowed and peeling.

On the main wall hung a painting—a corpulent figure, part Buddha, part demon, with six arms and three heads. The left face smiled gently; the right scowled fiercely; the central face bore an unfathomable expression, staring from its lotus seat at any devotee before it.

Above the painting, in crooked large letters, was written: “The Eternal Day of the Blissful King.”

Below stood an incense burner with a stick of incense smoldering, its sweet, cloying scent almost nauseating.

Miu looked at the painting on the wall, but her attention was elsewhere. She glanced toward the corner cabinet, which lay overturned, its contents scattered. But nothing she expected was there.

Her gaze shifted to the center of the living room.

On a large mat lay a woman, middle-aged, heavily made-up, her expression vacant. She wore only a bra, her belly folds forming deep grooves, her skin saturated with cheap perfume and sweat.

The living room’s dim light obscured the woman’s features. Perhaps ten years ago her sharp chin would have made her a beauty, but now it was lost beneath layers of fat.

She smoked a cigarette, not even glancing at Miu as she entered, until Miu stood before her.

“Move aside,” Miu said softly, her face half hidden by her black hair.

“…Oh?”

The woman’s dull, cloudy eyes rolled over, deep-set sockets barely covered by makeup.

She gazed directly at Miu.

“What do you want?”

“You’re sitting on it.”

Miu crouched, pulling at one corner of the mat, struggling to retrieve a photo frame.

Inside was a portrait of a handsome middle-aged man, dressed in civil service uniform, smiling gently at the camera.

But the photo was in black and white.

Miu carefully wiped off the stains, but cracks remained visible. She looked up at the woman, silently questioning her, but the woman only chuckled:

“…Heh heh… So you meant this… When Masao and the others came today, they got too rough… the cabinet was knocked over—he’s dead anyway, he won’t mind.”

Miu held the memorial photo, expressionless, listening to the woman speak.

Then she rose, intending to leave. But the woman grabbed her sleeve, yanking her closer.

Staring at Miu, her face twisted with obvious disgust.

“Honestly… how could I have a daughter like you—if only you were a bit prettier…”

“If I were prettier, you’d send me into the cult to please the leader, wouldn’t you?”

Miu met her gaze, calm.

The woman looked startled for a moment, then instantly furious.

She snatched up whatever was at hand—vanity mirror, perfume bottle, comb—hurling them all at Miu’s face!

“It’s all your fault! You ugly wretch!
…The leader said it—because I gave birth to an ‘Amatsu Onna,’ I brought disaster, so I must atone! If I’d known, I never would have had you!”

At last, her rage subsided.

New wounds appeared on Miu’s face, blood trickling down, but she clung tightly to the memorial photo, letting the blood fall.

The woman glared at her, chest heaving with anger.

After a long moment, she finally snorted and ignored Miu, kneeling before the image of the Blissful King, bowing fervently and chanting:

“O Blissful King, measureless…
Save all from water and fire…
Savior, Blissful King…
Grant pleasure in the next life…
Supreme Blissful King…”

Hearing the woman’s zealous chanting, Miu quietly rose from the mat, took a few tissues to wipe the blood from her face, hugged the memorial photo tightly, and returned to her room, closing the door behind her.

It was called her bedroom, but it was barely three square meters, containing only a bed and a wall desk, the bed covered by a thin blanket.

Without undressing, Miu lay down. The blanket barely kept out the midnight chill, but a subtle warmth in her chest made tonight feel far better than those of the past.

She placed the black-and-white memorial photo carefully beside her pillow, leaning against the wall so the man in the photo could always smile at her.

Outside, the woman’s obsessive chanting continued.

Inside, the girl pulled up the blanket, closed her eyes, letting the fresh wounds on her face slowly scab over, and gently whispered to the photo:

“Good night, Dad.”