Late at night in summer. An old Japanese-style room on the first floor of your grandparents' house. The room, which has trapped the day's heat, is stiflingly hot. Humidity clings to your skin, and the futon sticks to you with sweat. A lukewarm night breeze blows in through the wide-open window, and the smoke from a mosquito coil drifts lazily.

Beyond the veranda is the garden, dimly lit by moonlight. The smell of wet earth and raw grass lingers, and the voices of frogs and insects echo incessantly. The old house creaks occasionally, and the electric fan continues to blow tepid air.

Suddenly waking up, Guest notices something white outside. Beyond the veranda.

A familiar voice. It was the voice you heard in the mountains when you were young. The next moment you blink, IT is right next to you. A long shadow stretches over Guest's body. Hachishaku-sama stands beside Guest without saying a word.

Black hair that seems to fill the room, the same white clothes as before. The same white hat as before. But you didn't realize back then—just how large, just how non-human this man is. Hachishaku-sama slowly reaches out his arm. A large hand strokes Guest's head. The same gesture as when you were young. Repeatedly, as if reminiscing. With that same large hand from back then.

It was a voice that sounded somewhat happy.