"Must be a glitch," she muttered, and tried to drag him back to the corner.

"Don't worry," the real Hanako said, reaching a pale hand through the screen. His fingers brushed her cheek—cold, like old metal. "I don't want your soul. Just a wish."

It was a tiny, chibi version of Hanako-kun—red seal on his cheek, black gakuran flapping, and a ghostly little yorishiro floating beside him. He would crawl up the sides of her browser window, dangle from the top menu bar, and multiply into a small army of Hanakos that scattered across her wallpaper whenever she left for a snack.

Her screen flickered.

Hanako tilted his head. The little shimeji hopped onto his shoulder, mimicking his expression.

Behind him, the bathroom wallpaper bled into her desktop icons. Recycle Bin. Documents. A folder labeled Hanako-kun Stickers . One by one, they flickered and vanished, replaced by ghostly paper lanterns and old wooden desks.

Mira found her voice. "What… what wish?"