Midnight at the Yokai Inn
The inn was eerily quiet. Outside, the wind whispered through the ancient banyan tree, its leaves casting swaying shadows as moonlight sliced through the window cracks, painting the wooden floor in soft geometric patterns.
The protagonist was in the backyard—literally sunbathing in moonlight. He’d discovered a peculiar clearing where, at just the right angle, the beams carried a weightless serenity, as if the light could rinse away all worries. It was a healing ward left behind by a long-gone "Moon Fox," now just a silent echo.
"What’re you doing out here?" A familiar voice piped up. It was "A-Deng," the little paper lantern spirit, who’d recently learned to shapeshift into a pocket-sized nightlight and now perched on the protagonist’s shoulder like a sassy parrot.
"Vibing," the protagonist said.
"You’re not praying for your mortgage to magically vanish, are you?" A-Deng flickered. "Let me tell you, that’s harder than getting the tiger yokai to quit smoking."
The protagonist rolled his eyes but couldn’t help grinning.
Then—ting-a-ling!
A delicate chime rang out from the direction of the old tool shed.
They exchanged a glance.
"...No one should be there at this hour," A-Deng muttered.
Behind the shed, covered in dust and cobwebs, stood a defunct red phone booth—a relic left by previous tenants. Yet now, its receiver dangled midair, swaying gently, as if someone had just hung up.
The protagonist lifted the receiver. Silence. But when he set it back down, a faint silhouette materialized behind the glass, blurred like a memory.
"...A yokai?" he whispered.
"Yeah, but... it smells ancient. Like it’s calling from last century," A-Deng mused, pressing against the glass.
Then—a voice. Crackling, weathered:
"Hello... is this... the inn that still takes in yokai?"
The protagonist blinked. "Yeah, it is. Who’s this?"
A long pause. Then, like a name dredged from the depths of time:
"...The Time Sentinel."
A-Deng shivered violently. "No freaking way. That old geezer’s been missing for decades!"
The air hummed. Ripples of light pulsed across the phone booth’s glass, and from the receiver, a yellowed train ticket fluttered to the ground.
On it, in faded ink:
"One-Way Ticket: To the Past."
The protagonist picked it up. The moment his fingers touched the paper—
WOOSH.
The world blurred. The phone booth’s light flared crimson, and for a split second, the backyard wasn’t theirs anymore—overgrown with vines, the banyan tree younger, the inn’s signboard reading "Grand Yokai Transit (Est. 1923)."
Then—silence.
A-Deng’s voice was tiny. "...Uh. Did we just get a delivery from history?"
The protagonist stared at the ticket. "Worse."
"I think it’s asking for a return trip."
ns216.73.216.238da2
will be deducted 
and then Add to home screen.