Inside the Painting

The mission came without warning.

On Wednesday morning, Suguru Geto had barely entered the classroom when Masamichi Yaga slapped a mission sheet onto the lectern.

"A private art museum in Chichibu, Saitama," Masamichi Yaga said, his expression more serious than usual. "We received a report last night. A security guard disappeared while making his rounds. He was found this morning, unconscious on the floor of the second-floor gallery. His vital signs were normal, but he hasn't regained consciousness. A local jujutsu sorcerer provisionally identified a special grade cursed spirit, but he didn't dare approach and reported it straight to us."

Satoru Gojo sat with his feet propped on his desk, trying to pierce the foil lid of a carton of strawberry milk with a straw. After three failed attempts, he was starting to look irritated.

"Special grade?" he said. "That should be interesting."

"Don't underestimate it." Masamichi Yaga glanced at him. "The guard was only rendered unconscious, not killed, which suggests this cursed spirit might not be after human prey. But the fact that it can trap an adult's consciousness means its ability is nothing to take lightly. You're both going."

Suguru Geto picked up the mission sheet and read it. The museum was called Pheobe Hall, a private collection primarily featuring modern Japanese paintings. Its director was a man in his eighties, reportedly a renowned collector in his youth. He had later converted his home into a museum and opened it to the public. The cursed spirit had appeared in the second-floor gallery, though its exact location was unknown.

"When do we leave?" Suguru Geto asked.

"Now."

Satoru Gojo finally pushed the straw through, took a long drink of milk, and stood.

"Let's go."

The car turned onto a narrow road. About twenty minutes later, a black building appeared ahead.

It was a small, two-story building with a little courtyard out front. A large tree grew there, with a stone marker beneath it bearing the name "Pheobe Hall." Moss had obscured half the lettering.

The museum doors were open. A man in his forties stood at the entrance, wearing a dark blue work uniform and a name badge that read "Assistant Director Sato." When he saw Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto get out of the car, he hurried over, his expression caught somewhere between anxiety and relief.

"You're the two from Jujutsu High, right? Thank goodness, you're finally here. The director is waiting inside." He headed in as he spoke, walking quickly, as though fleeing something.

They followed Sato into the museum. The first floor housed a spacious gallery, with dozens of paintings hanging on the walls: landscapes, birds and flowers, and figures, all mounted in elegant frames. Warm yellow light shone over them, making the pigments look as fresh as if they had just been applied. The gallery was quiet except for their footsteps and the hum of the air conditioning.

"The guard had his incident upstairs," Sato said, unconsciously lowering his voice. "He was making his usual rounds last night. When he reached the east gallery on the second floor, his radio suddenly went silent. We waited an hour, but couldn't reach him, so we went up to look. We found him lying on the east gallery floor, his eyes open, but... unresponsive."

"What do you mean by unresponsive?" Suguru Geto asked.

"His eyes were open, but we couldn't wake him. His pupils moved, his heartbeat and breathing were normal, but he just wouldn't wake up." Sato's Adam's apple bobbed. "We took him to the hospital, but the doctors couldn't find anything wrong. They said he seemed to be asleep. But it wasn't ordinary sleep. It was as if his consciousness had been locked away somewhere."

Satoru Gojo slipped his hands into his pockets and looked toward the stairs.

"How many paintings are in the east gallery?"

Sato paused, clearly not expecting that question.

"Twelve. All modern Japanese paintings. The artists aren't particularly famous, but they're all from the director's private collection."

"What do they depict?"

"Landscapes, figures, birds and flowers-a bit of everything. One is rather unusual. It's an artist's self-portrait. Apparently, he died after finishing it."

Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto exchanged a glance.

"Take us there," Satoru Gojo said.

Sato led them to the foot of the stairs, but refused to go any farther.

"I... I'll wait here," he said, his face a little pale. "It's not that I don't want to go up. I... I tried before, but when I reached the turn in the stairs, something felt wrong. I got dizzy and nauseous."

Suguru Geto glanced at him and didn't insist.

They climbed the stairs. The second floor was much darker than the first. Only half the corridor lights were on; the rest might have been broken, or simply switched off.

The east gallery stood at the end of the corridor, its door closed. A wooden sign hung above it, bearing the handwritten words "East Gallery" in faded ink.

Suguru Geto pushed open the door.

The gallery was small, about forty square meters, with twelve paintings hanging on its walls. It was dim, lit by only a few spotlights. A bench stood in the center, and beside it lay a fallen radio, presumably the guard's.

Satoru Gojo entered, looked around, then stopped before a painting.

"Geto, look at this."

Suguru Geto walked over and stood beside him, looking at the painting.

It was small, roughly A3-sized, and depicted a man sitting by a window. He wore a black kimono, and his long hair covered one eye. His face was turned toward the viewer, his expression placid, but his gaze was deep, as though he were looking at someone outside the painting, or somewhere far away. Beyond the window lay mountains beneath a gray sky. It was impossible to tell whether it was daytime or dusk.

A small label at the lower right corner of the frame listed the artist's name and the painting's title.

"Kazuki Hashimoto, 'Self-Portrait.' 1983, Showa 58."

Showa 58. 1983. More than twenty years ago.

"The artist's eyes," Satoru Gojo said, his Six Eyes fixed on the painting. "They're like a cursed spirit's."

Suguru Geto studied the painted man's eyes. Suddenly, he felt something lightly touch his consciousness, like someone calling his name from far away. The voice was faint, but he heard it, and couldn't help wanting to turn.

He looked away.

"It's inside this painting," Suguru Geto said.

Satoru Gojo nodded. "Not attached to it. Inside it. Something is alive in the world within the painting."

"How do we handle it?" Suguru Geto asked.

Satoru Gojo thought for a moment.

"I'll go in and look."

Suguru Geto looked at him. "Go in?"

"Into the painting," Satoru Gojo said. "The cursed spirit is in there, and so is the guard's consciousness. Attacking from outside with cursed energy might destroy the painting, or hurt the guard's consciousness. Our best option is to go in, deal with the cursed spirit, and bring the guard's consciousness back out."

"How will you get in?"

Satoru Gojo reached toward the painting. The instant his fingertips touched its surface, the man in the painting blinked.

It wasn't painted. Something inside the painting was using the man's eyes to watch them.

Then Satoru Gojo's body went rigid. His hand remained against the painting, but his gaze-

"Satoru," Suguru Geto called.

Satoru Gojo didn't respond.

Suguru Geto reached for his shoulder, but the moment his fingers touched Satoru Gojo's shirt, a tremendous pull surged out of the painting, like an invisible hand gripping his wrist and dragging him inside.

The painting became a sea of blue.

Suguru Geto stood within that blue, with no ground beneath his feet, no sky above his head, and no walls around him. He hung suspended in a boundless space containing nothing but blue.

Then the blue began to change.

Outlines emerged in the distance. First lines, then colors, then shapes. Mountains, a window, a kimono, hair. The painted man sat by the window, exactly as he had in the painting.

Someone sat beside him.

Satoru Gojo.

Satoru Gojo sat in a chair beside the man, his posture relaxed. He showed no surprise at Suguru Geto's arrival, merely raising a hand in a little wave.

"You came in too," he said.

Suguru Geto walked over. Whatever lay beneath his feet had a slight spring to it.

"How did you get in?" Satoru Gojo asked.

"I touched you when you got pulled inside."

Satoru Gojo glanced at his shoulder, as though he had only just realized someone had touched it. He said nothing, simply turning his gaze back to the painted man.

"Where's the spirit?" Suguru Geto asked.

"Right here," Satoru Gojo said, pointing at the man.

The man sat motionless by the window, his expression as placid as ever, his eyes still deep. But Suguru Geto could sense that he wasn't possessed by a cursed spirit. He was the cursed spirit. Or rather, this "him" inside the painting was itself a cursed spirit.

"You're not Kazuki Hashimoto," Suguru Geto said.

The man's eyes moved. He didn't blink; instead, his pupils shifted focus from somewhere far away to Suguru Geto.

"I'm not." His voice was soft and flat, as though reciting words he had repeated countless times. "I'm what he left in the pigments when he painted this. His loneliness, his fear, his refusal to accept it. He died after finishing this painting, leaving those things to me."

"You trapped that guard's consciousness," Suguru Geto said.

"He touched the painting," the man said. "I only wanted him to see my painting. But he couldn't understand it. He became afraid. When he grew afraid, his consciousness curled into a ball, and I couldn't send it back."

"Send him back, then let us out," Suguru Geto said.

The man was silent for a few seconds.

"Can you understand it?"

Suguru Geto looked at him.

"Understand what?"

The man raised a hand and pointed out the window. The mountains beyond it were still blue, the sky still gray. But when Suguru Geto looked closely, he realized the mountains weren't still. They were moving, very, very slowly, as though breathing.

"This is his world," the man said. "He painted his whole life, and no one ever understood. After he died, I was the only one left in this world. I don't need company. I just want someone to look. One glance is enough."

Suguru Geto looked at the mountains outside the window.

The mountains were still breathing. The sky was still brightening. A thin golden line appeared in the distance.

"I see it," Suguru Geto said.

The man's eyes lit up.

"What do you see?" he asked.

"The mountains are moving," Suguru Geto said. "The sky is growing brighter. This world is alive, isn't it?"

A faint smile touched the man's lips.

"Thank you," he said.

Then he began to fade.

Satoru Gojo stood.

"The guard's consciousness is over there." He tipped his chin toward a corner of the gallery.

Suguru Geto looked over and saw a translucent, human-shaped shadow. Satoru Gojo approached and touched it. The shadow trembled, then slowly unfurled, taking the form of a middle-aged man in a security uniform. He looked dazed, as though he had just been woken from a very long dream.

"Let's go," Satoru Gojo said.

The blue began receding from the edges. It shrank inward from every direction until it became a single point.

Suguru Geto opened his eyes.

He stood in the east gallery, his hand still hovering a few centimeters from the painting. Satoru Gojo stood beside him, his fingers just withdrawing from its surface. The painting remained, but the man's eyes had changed. They were no longer a deep, bottomless blue, but an ordinary, painted, lifeless color.

The guard still lay on the floor. His fingers twitched, then his eyes slowly opened.

"I... where am I?" He stared blankly at the ceiling.

Satoru Gojo crouched and examined his pupils.

"You're in the museum. You passed out, but you're fine now. Can you stand?"

The guard pushed himself into a sitting position and shook his head, as though trying to empty water from it.

"I... I remember looking at a painting. After that, I don't know."

"Don't touch that painting again." Satoru Gojo stood and brushed off his trousers.

They left the east gallery and went downstairs. Sato was still at the foot of the stairs, even paler than before. His eyes widened when he saw them coming down.

"Is... is it over?"

"It's over," Suguru Geto said. "The guard's awake. He's upstairs."

Sato all but ran up the stairs.

Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto left the museum.

Satoru Gojo leaned against the car door, in no hurry to get in.

"Geto, was what you said in the painting true?" Satoru Gojo asked.

Suguru Geto looked at him.

"Which part?"

"The mountains are moving, the sky is growing brighter. This world is alive."

Suguru Geto thought for a moment.

"It was true. I saw it."

"I didn't see any of that," he said. "All I saw was blue."

Suguru Geto looked at him. Sunlight fell across Satoru Gojo's face, reflecting off his sunglasses and hiding the eyes behind them.

"Because you were looking with the Six Eyes," Suguru Geto said. "The Six Eyes see the essence of things. Its essence was blue. But that world wasn't just blue. There were other things in it."

"Like what?"

Suguru Geto thought for a moment.

"Like something a person wants others to see, but doesn't know how to put into words."

Satoru Gojo fell silent for a few seconds. Then he opened the car door and settled into the driver's seat.

"Let's go. We have a report to write."

Suguru Geto got into the passenger seat and fastened his seat belt. The car left the museum courtyard and headed onto the narrow road.

"Why didn't you just destroy the painting while we were inside?" Suguru Geto asked.

Satoru Gojo tapped a hand against the steering wheel.

"Because that cursed spirit meant no harm," he said. "He was just too lonely."

Suguru Geto turned to look at him. Satoru Gojo's profile looked calm in the sunlight.

"Did you feel sorry for him?" Suguru Geto asked.

Satoru Gojo didn't answer.