The pale hand beneath the bed had yet to touch his ankle when the oil lamp went out.
The inn room vanished from view in an instant.
Warm colors took its place. Wooden walls, the smell of charcoal, and a low table set with food. Light filtered through the paper windows, bathing the entire room in softness and peace.
A woman stood in the doorway.
She wore pale gray everyday clothes and carried a tray. On her face was a smile Yaha had seen countless times, a habitual, gentle smile tinged with concern.
It was Tsutako's smile.
Yaha sat where he was, watching the figure approach. Her footsteps fell against the false wooden floor, each just a little softer than the real sound would have been.
That tiny difference was enough.
He did not so much as lift his eyelids. He raised his right hand from his side, palm outward, aimed it at that face, and gave a level push forward.
The figure took the palm strike head-on, three steps away from him.
There was no scream, no peeling flesh. Like a mirror struck squarely by a sledgehammer, it shattered with a crash, starting between the brows of that false face.
The cozy Tomioka Family home, its wooden beams, the smell of charcoal, even that nauseating warmth, exploded into a cloud of dust in a thousandth of a second, leaving not a trace behind.
The oil lamp lit up again.
The same hard plank bed, the same moldy inn room. The pale hand beneath the bed recoiled an inch as though shocked, its black fingernails gleaming coldly in the dim light.
Yaha leaned down and looked at it.
"Trying to disgust me with this shit."
His voice was utterly flat, no different from commenting on an overcooked piece of meat.