Chapter Text
The thick, heavy warmth of a brightly colored blanket was the only thing standing between Ichigo and the crisp morning air. He lay motionless on his bed, trapped in that cozy, half-conscious fog where reality hadn't quite settled in yet.
Then came the knock. A sharp thud against the wood shattered the quiet.
With a soft groan, Ichigo sluggishly peeled himself away from the warmth of his sheets, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He shuffled over and pulled the door open.
Yuzu stood in the hallway, practically drowning in her oversized bunny-themed pajamas. One hand sleepily rubbed her eye while the other tightly clenched a plush toy banana that looked like it had been through hell and back. One eye was ripped off, and loose stuffing spilled out from a tear in its side.
“Papa says come downstairs…” she mumbled, trailing off into a yawn.
“Yeah, alright,” Ichigo nodded.
He turned to head back into his room, but stopped dead in his tracks. Raising his hands, he stared down at his palms. Slowly, he flexed his fingers, clenching them into fists before uncurling them again. They worked completely normally. Yet, a cold chill ran down his spine. He cocked his head, his brows furrowing.
Yuzu blinked at him. “What’s wrong?”
Ichigo snapped out of it, shaking his head quickly to clear the thought. “Nothin’,” he muttered. “Just a weird dream.”
“If you had a nightmare…” Yuzu held up her battered toy. “Kiiro might be able to help you out.”
Ichigo stared at her. “Who’s Kiiro?”
“The banana!” Yuzu beamed, a wide smile flashing her missing canine tooth.
“You’re so weird!” Ichigo grumbled, giving her a gentle shove on the shoulder as he pushed past her.
Yuzu stumbled slightly, pouting and grumbling under her breath as she ambled down the hall behind him.
He followed her toward the kitchen, where the rich, comforting aromas of frying eggs and freshly steamed rice drifted through the air. Ichigo lifted his head, breathing in the scent. The warmth radiating from the stove brought a wave of quiet, strange calm over him. Sensing his delay, Yuzu reached back and took his hand, tugging him along the rest of the way.
Their father was already hard at work. Decked out in fuzzy bunny slippers and a bright pink apron, Isshin stood over the pan, expertly frying eggs while curls of steam rose from the rice cooker beside him.
Ichigo paused, his eyes drifting over to the kitchen counter. He stared at the smooth white surface for a long moment. It had been silver the last time he saw it... hadn't it?
“Good morning, Ichi!” Isshin called out in a cheery, sing-song voice. He didn't even look up, his eyes locked on the eggs he was vigorously whisking with chopsticks before tossing in a handful of diced green onions.
“Morning,” Ichigo muttered groggily.
Isshin let out a dramatic groan, though a wide yawn betrayed how much the early morning fog was getting to him, too. “Gosh… what’s up with the attitude, mister?”
“I don’t have an attitude!” Ichigo shot back, his voice rising as he hoisted himself onto a stool that felt barely taller than he was.
“Hm-hm,” Isshin hummed.
Ignoring his dad, Ichigo slumped forward, pressing his cheek against the hard wood of the table. He began idly tracing random shapes onto the surface with his fingernail, humming soft, meaningless noises to pass the time. Yuzu scrambled onto the chair beside him, giggling softly as she reached out to play with his hair.
“Here’s breakfast, berries!” Isshin announced, sliding two plates onto the table. He set down a blue plate decorated with playful little monkeys eating bananas in front of Yuzu, who immediately grabbed her spoon and started digging in. In front of Ichigo, he placed a bright red plate decorated with sharp blue stripes.
Ichigo dug right into his food, his appetite taking over. He scooped up a generous bite, chewed, and swallowed—but when he looked down, his plate was still completely full. Confused, he took another huge mouthful. He looked down again. Still, the pile of food hadn't shrunk an inch. If anything, there seemed to be even more than when he started.
A strange, prickling sensation washed over the back of his neck. What a weird day.
Before he could dwell on it, soft, dragging footsteps echoed down the hallway. Someone slouched into the kitchen, carrying a snoring Karin over her shoulder like a sack of rice.
The woman’s wild, messy orange hair spilled lazily over her face, completely obscuring her features as she strolled into the room.
Masaki.
“Mom!” Ichigo called out, but the word seemed to swallow itself, failing to catch her attention.
Masaki drifted past him as if he weren't even there, walking over to Isshin, who was standing by the stove cutting bright red peppers. Rhythmic thuds vibrated against the wooden cutting board. She leaned in softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.
“Mom!” Ichigo called out again, louder this time. He jumped off his stool, his bare feet padding against the floor as he reached out to snag the soft fabric of her dress.
Finally, she paused.
Slowly, gracefully, she turned toward him and knelt down, though her face remained completely buried beneath her unruly mop of copper hair. She reached out a tender hand, gently ruffling his hair.
“Cut it out,” Ichigo grumbled, swatting her hand away. Reaching up, he forcefully swept the hair away from her face—but as the bright orange strands cleared, his breath hitched in his throat.
Something was deeply, terrifyingly wrong.
He couldn't see her face. Where her eyes, nose, and warm, loving smile should have been, there was only a thick, swirling abyss of pitch-black fog.
Ichigo recoiled, taking a trembling step back as his lips parted in sheer shock and horror. “M-mom…?”
Masaki tilted her head. Slowly, her soft, warm hand reached up and covered his eyes.
The moment her palm touched his skin, a sudden, wet warmth spilled uncontrollably down his cheeks. Heavy tears overflowed, and without warning, violent flashes of that night by the river erupted in his mind.
Cold, biting water rushing around his legs. Slippery, wet stones digging into his feet. His mother’s soft voice echoing endlessly, drowned out by the thunderous sound of something crashing heavily into the river.
His own ragged breathing—a desperate, pitiful gasp for air against the roar of the storm.
A towering, terrible shape moving through the downpour—
His mother’s hand slipping away—
Screaming. Loud, horrifying, agonizing screaming shattered his mind.
Before he could pull himself out of the nightmare, suffocating dark arms reached up, wrapping tightly around him. They dragged him under, swallowing the sounds, the cold, and the fear, until everything went pitch black.