Salt, Ghosts and the Number Four

The windows were slashed by the rain, and the boy felt cold despite being indoors. Perhaps it was the wind from the nearby forest. The trees swayed violently, branches thrashing, and the chill seemed to spread from them, seeping through the thin walls of his unheated apartment.

The thunderstorm roared—terrifying, perhaps—but to the little boy it was only a distant sound, drowned out by the steady growl of his empty belly.

He looked at the bowl of water and the large pot in front of him and sighed. His eyes welled up just a little, but he remembered that even if he threw a tantrum, no one would see. Or care. No one was there for him anymore.

“Water, mushrooms, aaand salt,” he murmured quietly. “I have no salt.”

He stared at the counter in front of him and spaced out.

That morning, he'd humbly—almost graciously—paid for instant noodles and a chocolate bar with handwritten money. He had slipped it toward the cash slot with practiced care, already picturing himself outside, tasting victory.

Easy, he’d thought. Works every time.

He hadn’t noticed Mr. Rick at all. The old man’s bald head shot up from behind the counter, shiny and round like a giant egg.

“Got you!” Mr. Rick barked.

His heartbeat hammered in his ears as he stood frozen.

He pulled once at his wrist.

It didn’t come free.

Mr. Rick immediately shouted for his three sons, who came running, delighted at the news that the little thief had finally been caught.

“Daiki! Go call the police!”

“See, Dad?” Daiki said, holding his muscular arms out in protest. “I told you I didn’t need the glasses.”

“He said you’re stupid, not blind,” his older brother snorted, letting out a mocking laugh.

The youngest laughed too.

“But it’s obvious,” Daiki insisted. “The boy slipped the money in when no one was looking!”

“That’s not money, you idiot,” his older brother snapped.

“Stop your squabbling and make the phone call, Daiki!”

But Daiki wouldn't move. He wanted his father to acknowledge him. He wanted his brother to apologize.

For someone so big and strong, he had a strangely sensitive heart.

That hesitation was all the boy needed.

He twisted free from Mr. Rick’s uncertain grip and bolted out the door.

They snapped out of it instantly and chased after him.

Daiki was strong and athletic, his footsteps heavy behind the boy. But when the forest came into view, the boy found strength he hadn’t known he still had and bolted straight toward it.

He knew the forest well. He darted between trees, slipped over roots, vanished into shadow—and lost Daiki quickly.

But he didn’t cover his tracks.

While crouched behind a large rock, trying to quiet his breathing, Daiki’s upside-down face suddenly dropped into view from the other side.

“Foun—”

The boy screamed and ran again, leaving Daiki behind—exasperated, exhausted, and thoroughly furious.

Mr. Rick’s shop was two kilometers away from the apartment complex. It was the nearest one.

He wished things hadn’t happened that way. Now it would be even harder to get food.

By evening, the thunderstorm had quieted. He stood by the window, trying to weigh his options.

He didn’t have any.

The tap water burned cold against his soft hands as he washed the mushrooms. He drank some of it, hoping it might trick his stomach into feeling full enough to avoid eating the saltless soup.

It didn’t. The cold only made his insides tighten and ache.

Defeated, he sliced the mushrooms into very small pieces. The knife tapping against the cutting board echoed too loudly in the small apartment, each sound scraping against his nerves.

When the soup was ready, he poured himself a bowl and forced it down, ignoring his screaming taste buds.

The bitterness came late—sharp and lingering at the back of his tongue, as if the mushrooms themselves were warning him. His mouth filled with saliva, his throat tightening before he could stop it.

He swallowed anyway.

Wasting food was worse than the taste.

Afterward, he pushed the bowl away and, for a moment, forgot that his mother was no longer sitting across from him to do something about it.

She had always made sure he was full. She seasoned mushrooms properly, cooked hot pots that filled the room with warmth, and made vegetables taste like they weren't punishment.

She was kind. She hugged him when he cried. She kissed his forehead and told him to be brave.

But she also hit him sometimes when he was disobedient.

She used a plastic spatula, striking his palms until he understood what he had done wrong. She tried not to beat him until he cried. Still, some punishments were harsher than others.

He remembered the time she forbade him from visiting the forest for three days after he tried to peek into Apartment 44.

“It’s just a number,” he’d complained.

“Forty-four isn’t even scary.”

“In Japanese folklore, four is unlucky,” she said. “It sounds like death.”

“That’s stupid.”

She tapped the spatula once against the counter. “So is fire. You still don’t touch it.”

Apartment 44 sat at the very top of the complex, the last door at the end of the corridor. No one ever visited it. He had been warned again and again.

Still, an idea sparked.

Apartment 44.

If the owner was barely there—if ever—maybe there was salt?

His mouth watered at the thought of properly seasoned mushrooms. Fear followed immediately. Even now, even with his mother gone, her rules lived deep inside him. They were all that remained of her.

His stomach growled again.

Surely she would forgive him. If he didn’t eat, he could get sick.

The cold night air washed over his face as he stepped outside. He walked carefully, even though the corridor was empty.

Apartment 44 was on the same floor as his, but years ago the direct staircase had been sealed off. To reach it, he had to go down five floors and climb the eastern stairs back up.

The balcony outside the apartment was muddy and mold-stained, neglected like the rest of the building. Rain had driven insects to cling to the windowsills and doorframe.

He raised his hand to the silver doorknob and hesitated.

Then he exhaled and turned it.

Nothing happened.

Inside, it was warm.

An amber light flickered faintly, steady enough to feel intentional. Two green couches sat in the living room, their fabric worn but clean. The furniture looked expensive, cared for. The kitchen chairs had cushions—unlike his cold wooden ones at home. A thick mustard-colored carpet softened the floor, dulling sound of his hurried footsteps and making the room feel strangely safe.

Still uneasy, he crept into the kitchen, grateful for the carpet muffling his steps.

He stood on a chair and opened the cabinets.

Ramen. So much ramen. Ketchup. Thin strips of dried meat. Unfamiliar spices. Powdered milk. Tea.

The fridge was packed with beer and soda. Most cans had long expired. Others might still be good.

His grin stretched so wide his cheeks hurt.

A smug smile crept onto his face.

Then he giggled.

And froze, remembering where he was.

After steadying himself, he found salt and a bag, stuffing ramen packets into it until it felt satisfyingly heavy. He slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the door.

He didn’t make it past the handle. Rain slammed against the glass. The storm had come back. Even if he ran, the noodles would be soaked and ruined. He stared at the rain, unimpressed.

“One day,” he muttered, “two bad plans.”

He hugged the bag closer, sulking, and turned back inside. He dropped onto a chair and stared out at the storm, which seemed to be doing it on purpose.

As if on cue, hunger clawed at him, tightening his stomach until he lost the ability to resist cooking the ramen. When the bowl was empty, warmth spread through him in a way that felt wrong. Too fast. Too easy. His stomach was full, but his eyes kept drifting back to the kitchen, to the cabinets he hadn’t checked twice. The room smelled faintly of broth and salt, and the thought pressed against him, quiet and persistent: I could come back.

The realization made his chest tighten. Not fear—something worse.

Want.

The sound of a sliding door broke the silence.

He jerked his head around.

A woman floated near the doorway, her robes dark and fluid, stirring as though the apartment itself were breathing around her. She studied him with quiet interest, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“Who are you?” she asked mildly. “And why are you in my kitchen?”

He screamed and ran. The bag slipped from his hands. Salt scattered across the floor.

He bolted into the storm.

That night, he hid beneath his blankets, heart pounding, convincing himself that obedience meant safety, that he would never go near that apartment again.

In his nightmare, he dreamed that the woman from Apartment 44 had his mother's face. When he woke, birds were chirping in the distance, and warm sunlight filtered through the curtains.

For a brief moment, he forgot.

Then he remembered the kitchen.

No salt.

Hungry and restless, he decided to go to Mr. Rick’s shop to see what was happening. He stayed on the opposite side of the street, half-hidden behind a pole.

“Yes, a small boy with big eyes and a dimple right here,” Mr. Rick was saying loudly, poking his own cheek as he spoke to customers. “A thief. If you see him, you tell me.”

One of his sons was installing a camera above the entrance, standing on a crate and muttering under his breath.

Hidden behind a telephone pole, he watched for a while, then walked away.

It was a bright, warm, sunny day. Too nice to give up yet.

He walked for a long time before spotting another convenience store. A man stood near the entrance, arms crossed.

The boy slowed, then sped up again, pretending to count the cracks in the pavement as he passed. When he doubled back, he tried to slip in behind a customer—but the man’s hand shot out and stopped him.

“Shoo,” the man said, flicking his fingers.

The boy stuck out his tongue and ran.

When his plan failed, he had no choice but to head home.

By then, his clothes were damp with sweat. His legs ached. His stomach growled so loudly it startled him once or twice.

At the park, he slowed, considering whether to sit down.

Children were playing together—three boys kneeling dramatically in front of a very pretty girl, who stood with her hands on her hips, enjoying the attention. Others ran in circles, shouting, inventing rules and then breaking them immediately.

Then he saw a mother crouching in front of her daughter, who had scraped her knee. She kissed it, pressed a lollipop into the girl’s hand, and pulled her into a hug.

The boy turned away quickly.

His eyes stung. His throat tightened. He felt the old urge rise up—to cry, to shout, to throw himself on the ground—but he stopped himself. No one had wiped his tears for more than a year.

He balled his little fists and kept walking.

He was probably going to starve.

His mother couldn’t make meals for him anymore.

He felt unbearably tired.

By the time he reached his apartment, the sun was already sinking. The warmth drained from the walls as if it'd never been there. He sat on the floor for a while, doing nothing.

No salt.

No food.

No plan.

His stomach twisted painfully—and something else twisted with it. He curled onto his side, knees pulled to his chest, the way his mother used to tell him to when his stomach hurt. It helped a little.

Not enough.

Eventually, he stood.

He didn’t argue with himself this time.

The walk back to Apartment 44 felt shorter, as if his feet already knew the way.

The balcony was damp and silent. The door unlocked, just like last time.

Inside, the amber light was on again.

The apartment was quiet but not empty. Not the kind of quiet that meant nothing was there. The kind that waited.

The salt lay scattered across the floor where he had dropped it. A few ramen packets were still there too, damp at the corners.

“Little boy,” a voice said calmly, “do you come to steal from me again?”

She didn't look surprised to see him. She spoke as though company was overdue, not unexpected.

She emerged from the shadows as if she were part of them, peeling herself free of the dark. The boy let out a small, startled yelp.

“Ah—!”

He had not prepared for this. Not words, not excuses, not even legs ready to run.

She moved slowly—too slowly—almost like a normal person. That was what unsettled him most. She crossed the room and seated herself on the green couch with careful grace, smoothing her robes as though they were real fabric.

“You left a mess in my house,” she said, glancing at the scattered salt. “And you tried to steal my food.”

Food?

Ghosts didn't need food.

But she sat there like someone who did.

He swallowed. “A—are you… real?”

She did not answer.

Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and regarded him as though she had been waiting all along. In the warm light, she no longer seemed ethereal—only pale, still, and very present.

After a moment, she tilted her head. “You are an awfully rude little boy, are you not?”

He bristled. “My mom told me not to talk to you.”

“Ah.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Then you should tell her of your… undelightful deeds.” She patted the empty space beside her. “Or you may come here and offer an apology.”

He remained by the doorway.

“I dropped the salt,” he said at last. His voice came out small. “I didn’t mean to.”

She glanced at the floor, then back at him, a flicker of amusement passing through her eyes.

“So,” she said lightly, “you have returned for the ramen.”

He nodded.

“You ran,” she added. Not accusing. Merely stating a fact.

He nodded again.

The apartment hummed softly around them, warm and still. He stood waiting—for her to scold him, to chase him away, to lay down a rule. She waited too, as if expecting him to flee once more.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

His throat tightened. He nodded.

“My mom said I shouldn’t come here.”

The woman studied him for a long moment.

“She is not here,” she said gently.

“That’s not true,” he shot back. “She just hasn’t come back yet.”

He folded his arms, daring her to argue.

“I just have to wait,” he added. “You don’t know her.”

The woman did not reply.

That hurt more than if she had.

“You’re lying,” he said, weaker now. “She wouldn’t just—”

He stopped. His throat burned.

He waited for what always came next—the rule, the warning, the punishment.

Nothing came.

No one stopped him when he reached for the salt.

No one told him he was wrong.

His chest felt hollow.

“Will you tell her?” he asked quietly.

The woman frowned, just slightly. “Tell whom?”

“My mom,” he said. “When she comes back.”

The woman was silent for a long while.

“Little boy,” she said at last, “what is your name?”

“Ren.”

She looked at him with something like sorrow, something like fondness.

“Ren dear,” she said, “no one comes back.”