Due to the theme of the story, some scenes may unintentionally cause nausea. If you are sensitive to insects, filth, horror, or unpleasant imagery, please turn back now.

Stone Bathtub

Lukewarm water still oozes from the rusted spout. Perhaps there is a leak somewhere; there is no sound, yet the water level remains constant.

The temperature of the tub is unnaturally steady. If touched for too long, the sensation of one's skin begins to grow hazy.

The bottom is invisible. You can tell something is sedimented beneath the murky water, but the more you stare, the more the outlines blur.

Only around the drain is the color slightly darker. From there, the water "shivers" slowly, as if spreading outward.

There should be no current, yet occasionally, ripples rise to the surface as if touched from the inside.

When you bring your fingertips close, the water feels like more than just a liquid; it has a clinging sensation that lingers.

You don't know why, but your intuition screams that you must not touch it for long.

A dilapidated wooden sauna. Warm water seeps slightly from cracked pipes, filling the room with heavy, oppressive humidity.

Unfamiliar fungi have taken root in the crevices of the walls and ceiling. Something seems to be writhing beneath the caps, but it cannot be clearly identified.

A sickly sweet, rotting smell drifts through the air, and as if drawn to it, small shadows crawl across the floor and walls.

The wooden floor and benches are slimy with moisture and slime mold, giving a sensation of sinking slightly with every step.

Beyond the rotted fence, empty mountains stretch out. What should be an open view feels thin and surreal, far too quiet.

Fallen leaves have piled up in the stone tub, sinking black with rainwater and becoming so soft they feel like they might collapse if stepped on.

Above the tub, where there should be no water surface, a faint buzzing sound continues incessantly.

If you strain your eyes, you can see countless tiny shadows drifting in the air, obsessively circling the same spot.

The closer you get, the denser they become, yet for some reason, they hardly touch your skin.

Still, every time you breathe, a lingering sensation remains, as if something is caught in the back of your throat.

A crumbling wooden vault toilet. The door has rotted off, and its role as a private stall has long since been lost.

The moment you step inside, the air changes. A heavy, damp stench clings to your throat, making your breathing shallow.

The floorboards beneath your feet creak, and with every step, a sensation returns as if echoing from somewhere below.

The opening of the waste pit is dark, and the bottom is invisible. When you try to peer in, your sense of depth becomes distorted, and you lose track of how far down it goes.

Occasionally, the surface sways slightly, as if something "touched" it within that darkness.

There is no sound. But as you watch— You fall into the illusion that it is staring back at you.

The closer you get, The stronger the feeling becomes that you must not fall in.

A kitchen that hasn't been used in ages. Rusted utensils and cracked dishes remain in place, frozen in time.

Murky water has collected in the sink, and faint ripples sway, though it's unclear what is moving them.

The refrigerator at the back of the room remains tightly closed. However, perhaps it isn't perfectly sealed, as something is slowly oozing from the gaps.

It doesn't spread immediately upon hitting the floor, but maintains its shape, drawing thin threads.

The closer you get, the stronger the sensation that "something is still left inside."

Even though you know you shouldn't open it, your eyes won't leave it.

There are items left on the shelves and floor that look usable, but you feel a slight resistance to even picking them up in this space.

An old Japanese-style room. Compared to the exterior, the interior is unnaturally well-preserved.

Traces of someone living here remain on the tatami mats. Empty containers and disposable tools are left abandoned, never cleaned up.

In the center of the room, a futon is spread out. Though it shouldn't have been used for a long time, it looks as if a slight "indentation" remains.

The windows are not broken, so almost no outside sound enters. No breeze passes through; there is a silence as if this space alone has been cut off from the world.

When you step on the tatami, the inside sinks as if hollow. That sensation feels as if it's being transmitted somewhere far away, rather than just beneath your feet.

In the corner of the room stands a female mannequin. The more you look away, the more its position and orientation seem to blur.

It must have been there from the start, yet you can't remember exactly where it was standing.

This room can provide shelter from the wind and rain. But— You feel a resistance you can't explain toward staying here for long.

At the end of the passage leading to the basement, there is a heavily closed door. Rusted chains are wrapped around it multiple times, showing it hasn't been opened in a long while.

Cold air leaks slightly from the gaps in the door. Unlike other parts of this facility, you feel a "heaviness" distinct from the humidity.

The closer you get, the more the sounds fade. The surrounding presence recedes, and you feel as if this door alone is floating.

If you listen closely, you can sense something "continuing" from the inside.

Whether that is a machine or something else, you cannot tell.

After being there for a while, even without looking at it, the distance between you and the other side of the door becomes blurred.

You can open it. But you don't know what will change after you do.

A Decayed Note

I should be pointing the light at ⬛︎⬛︎, but the "part that should be illuminated" cannot be recognized properly.

It's ⬛︎ack. Immediately after thinking so, the colors bleed.

The surface sways like ⬛︎⬛︎⬛︎, and the outline that should have been there becomes something else in the next moment.

I don't remember making eye ⬛︎ontact. But I ⬛︎⬛︎⬛︎⬛︎⬛︎⬛︎ know.

A sound is ⬛︎ade.

It sounds like the ⬛︎⬛︎⬛︎ driving sound of a machine, Or like something ⬛︎et ⬛︎⬛︎⬛︎⬛︎⬛︎.

—Tekeli-li

I don't know the meaning. But I instinctively feel it is "something that must not be understood as a sound."