Threadless : A growing novel

"Some things aren't hidden.

They're just… unreferenced."

Inside the room, the box waited.

Neither Rin nor Aro moved for a moment.

Then Aro knelt. Opened it.

No trap. No dramatic hum.

Just…

A scarf.

Folded neatly. Deep green. Worn in the corners, like someone clutched it too tightly too often. It smelled faintly of chalk, citrus, and rain.

Aro stared.

"…Is this yours?" she asked.

Rin shook his head.

"I don't think so."

But something in his face tightened.

He reached out. Touched it.

The moment his fingers brushed the fabric, a pulse echoed softly in the room — like a heart skipping once and remembering how to beat again.

A second item lay beneath the scarf.

A photograph.

Faded. A bit frayed at the edges.

It showed two children — maybe Rin, maybe Aro. Maybe neither.

Smiling at the camera.

And between them…

A third figure. Blurred out. Erased.

The outline remained.

The shadow cast.

But no face.

No name.

Just a line of text printed faintly at the bottom:

"This version should not remember."

They said nothing for a long time.

Then Aro whispered, without knowing why:

"…I think we loved them."

Rin nodded.

"But not at the same time."

A breeze passed through the open doorway.

Neither of them had noticed it open again.

Then—footsteps.

Not echoing. Just soft, steady.

Mei leaned casually against the doorframe, sipping something from a cup labeled "Definitely Not Tea."

She glanced at the box, at the photo, at them.

Then smiled — not her usual mischievous one.

This was smaller. Quieter.

"So," she said. "You opened it again."

Rin turned sharply. "You knew?"

Mei shrugged. "Everyone does. Until they don't."

She took another sip, then looked at the photo. Her smile faltered just slightly.

"They used to hum when they lied," she said. "You hated it. Aro used to try and match the pitch. It was ridiculous."

Neither Rin nor Aro spoke.

Because they believed her.

Even if they couldn't remember why.

Mei stepped closer, dropped a small folded paper on the table beside the scarf.

"Keep going. You're close."

Then she walked out — no further explanation.

The door closed behind her without a sound.

Rin picked up the paper.

Unfolded it.

One line, scrawled in half-familiar handwriting:

"This isn't your first time grieving someone who isn't allowed to exist."