The townsfolk whispered about the old house at the edge of the river. The shutters hung loose, ivy crawled across the stone, and every so often, a lantern glowed in the window — though no one had lived there in decades. Children dared each other to throw stones, but none of them dared cross the threshold.

Harua didn't believe in ghost stories. At least, not until the night he did.

It was raining when he ducked into the abandoned house for shelter. His shoes left wet prints on the warped wood, and the silence pressed in thick, broken only by the steady drip of rain through the roof.

"Not many people come here anymore."

The voice was quiet, lilting. Harua spun. At the top of the staircase, leaning against the rail, stood a boy his age with pale skin and dark hair that shimmered strangely in the dim light. His clothes looked old-fashioned, like something out of a faded photograph.

"I—sorry," Harua stammered. "I didn't think anyone lived here."

The boy smiled faintly. "No one does. Not really."

And then Harua understood. His throat went dry. "You're—"

"A ghost? Yes." The boy walked down the steps, bare feet making no sound. "I'm Taki."

Harua should've run. Instead, he found himself rooted, heart thundering, not from fear but from a strange pull. "I'm Harua."

Taki tilted his head, studying him. "You're not afraid?"

"Not yet," Harua admitted. "Should I be?"

That earned a laugh — soft, like bells muffled in fog. "Most people are."

Over the weeks, Harua returned. At first, he told himself it was just curiosity. Then it became habit. He brought books to read aloud, fresh flowers to brighten the windowsill, even lantern oil to replace the ghostly light that flickered each night.

Taki listened, perched on the arm of a chair, sometimes close enough that Harua swore he could feel the brush of cold against his skin.

"You talk like someone who misses the world," Harua said one evening.

"Maybe I do." Taki's eyes glimmered. "I don't remember much of my life anymore. Just the sound of the river, the smell of bread on market days, the way my sister used to braid my hair."

Harua's chest ached. He wanted to give back all that Taki had lost, to anchor him to something more than dust and memory.

"Then I'll remember you," Harua said fiercely. "As long as I'm here, you won't fade."

Taki blinked, as if no one had ever promised him that before.

One night, the rain returned — heavy, relentless. Harua found Taki at the window, the lantern glowing brighter than ever.

"You shouldn't come tonight," Taki murmured, though he didn't turn away. "The storm's dangerous."

Harua shook his head. "I don't care."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by thunder. Then Taki whispered, "Sometimes I wish... I'd met you before. When I was alive."

Harua's breath caught. He stepped closer, so close the air between them felt fragile, electric. "Then we'll make the most of now."

For a fleeting moment, Taki lifted his hand — cool and almost-solid — and pressed it against Harua's cheek. The contact was feather-light, gone as soon as it came, but Harua closed his eyes and leaned into it anyway.

The lantern flickered, casting their shadows together on the cracked wall.

They never spoke about endings. Not about the way ghosts eventually faded, or about how Harua would grow older while Taki remained bound to the house. For now, there was only the rain, the river, and the quiet, impossible miracle of finding each other at all.

And on stormy nights, when the lantern glowed in the window, the townsfolk whispered that the ghost of the river house was no longer alone.

A FEW WEEKS LATER

It began with a book.

Harua found it buried in the back of the town's dusty archive, a journal wrapped in moth-eaten cloth. It spoke of the river and its guardians, of restless spirits who lingered when their names were forgotten. And tucked in the final pages was a ritual: a way to unbind a ghost from the walls that tethered them.

He carried the book to the old house, heart hammering.

Taki was waiting in the window, lantern glow outlining his form like the memory of sunlight. "You've found something," he said, voice soft but sharp with curiosity.

Harua set the book down. "A way to free you."

The words hung in the air, heavy. Taki's expression didn't change, but the lantern flickered wildly, as if caught in a sudden wind.

"Free me," Taki repeated. "And then what?"

"You could leave this place," Harua said. "See the world again. You wouldn't be trapped in this house anymore." He swallowed. "You wouldn't fade."

For the first time, Taki looked away. His fingers traced the cracked window frame, a motion both absent and tender. "And if I go... I might not come back."

Harua stepped closer. "Then I'll follow you."

A shaky laugh slipped out of Taki, more fragile than before. "You can't follow where I might go. The living don't walk with the dead."

The ritual was simple: water from the river, a circle of salt, and a name spoken three times under lantern light. Simple, but irreversible.

That night, Harua knelt on the warped floorboards, lantern between them, salt forming a trembling circle. The rain outside drummed like a heartbeat.

"Taki," Harua whispered, his voice unsteady. "Do you want this?"

Silence stretched long enough to hurt. Then Taki knelt too, so close their knees almost touched. His form flickered faintly, like he was already half gone.

"I want..." His voice cracked, and he tried again. "I want to stay. I want to see the seasons turn with you, to hear you laugh in this broken house. But I don't want you chained to me."

"You're not a chain." Harua's throat tightened. "You're—" His breath shuddered out. "You're the reason I come back."

Taki's gaze softened, filled with something unearthly and unbearably human. "Then let me choose."

Harua's hands shook as he lifted the lantern. "Say your name, and the river will remember you. It'll carry you home."

Taki smiled faintly. "Then stay with me while I do."

The ritual began. Harua poured the river water into the circle, the salt hissing as if alive. Taki's voice joined the storm outside, soft but clear.

"Taki."

The lantern flared.

"Taki."

The air grew cold, pressing in on Harua's lungs.

"Taki."

Light burst, blinding and bright, and for one aching moment Harua thought he'd lost him forever.

Then — silence.

Harua blinked through tears. The lantern sat cold on the floor, flame extinguished. The house felt... empty.

And then a voice — warm, breathless, alive — whispered behind him:

"Harua."

He turned. Taki stood there, no longer translucent, no longer tethered to the lantern's glow. His eyes were wide, his chest rising and falling with real breath. He looked... alive.

Harua stumbled forward, hands flying to Taki's shoulders. Solid. Warm. Real. His vision blurred as he laughed and sobbed all at once.

"You stayed."

Taki smiled through his own tears, lifting a hand to Harua's cheek the way he never fully could before. "I told you. Let me choose. And I chose you."

The townsfolk noticed, of course. The lantern no longer glowed in the abandoned house, and whispers of the ghost by the river faded. But in the mornings, when the mist rolled low, two figures could be seen walking the riverbank side by side — one who had once been lost, and one who had never stopped searching.

And for the first time in decades, the river remembered not loss, but love.