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Sometime around June, Imayoshi’s coffee table becomes haunted by a spirit whose only apparent activity is autonomously shifting the table five centimeters to the left once every three hours. It isn’t quite noticeable at first, but after Imayoshi bumps his leg into the table more times than for it to be purely coincidental, he decides to set up camp on the floor for Saturday night.
At midnight, the table moves when he is leaning against it, and he slides across the tatami and hits the back of his head on the ledge of the table with a loud thump.
“What the hell,” says Imayoshi, squinting at the table in the dark. “Seriously, could you stop doing that?”
“S-Sorry,” says a small voice from underneath his coffee table. “I’m really sorry, but could you move your table? It’s covering my new kitchen space.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this is my apartment,” says Imayoshi. “Who are you, anyway?”
“A-Ah,” says the voice. “I’m sorry, Imayoshi-san. I didn’t introduce myself.” A small breeze touches Imayoshi’s face and he blinks twice before a young man emerges before him, a spectral figure wearing a yukata with flower patterns around the hem. His face is very beautiful, flushed dark and slightly glowing against the dark walls of Imayoshi’s living room. He flashes an uncomfortable smile at Imayoshi and shifts around nervously, small puffs of mist curling around his legs. “My name is Sakurai! I’ve lived here for the last three hundred years.”
“Three hundred years,” Imayoshi repeats. “And you decide to show up and bother me now? I’ve signed a contract with the building manager, you know. So why do I have to move my table just for you?”
“Well…”
“In fact, I think I should just kick you out instead,” Imayoshi continues, frowning. “You’re kind of a dick, you know that? I paid to live here, after all.”
Sakurai’s eyes are wide. “I-I’m so sorry! Can we work something out? Will you let me share this home with you? I’ve got nowhere to go otherwise.”
Imayoshi stands up. “Oh, but I’m not very good at sharing, Sakurai. In fact, you could say that I’m notoriously bad at it.”
“I’m sorry, Imayoshi-san,” Sakurai bites his lip. “I-I’ll do anything.”
Imayoshi claps his hands together. “Anything, you say?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Well,” says Imayoshi. “I suppose we can examine your compatibility with this home, then. Come and sleep in my bed for tonight.”
Sakurai gasps. “B-But–”
“I can’t have you running off to live under a different coffee table, after all,” says Imayoshi. “Didn’t I say I wasn’t good at sharing?”