After my grandmother died, I was left with the ofuton and the spirit inside it.

It had been hers since before lift-off, stitched by hand on Earth, brought to the orbiting colony in the old days when people still thought they might go back. Indigo-dyed cotton, faded from decades of artificial lighting. I unrolled it in the corner of my compartment because it still smelled like her—green tea, static, and something older, like tatami steeped in fog.

When I laid it out on the floor panel, it sighed.

I thought it was the air filters kicking on, but then it grumbled.

“Too cold in here. Your insulation’s all wrong.”

I froze. Then I bowed, because that’s what you do when a tsukumogami speaks to you—even in low gravity.

The ofuton shifted slightly, puffing its corners. “You don’t fluff properly,” it said. “Your grandmother used to take me to the warm side of the station to dry. She used to sing a song to me, too.”

I didn’t know the drying schedule, but I hummed something I remembered from an old Earth commercial for canned mikan.

It shifted beneath my hands—just slightly—but enough to feel like someone adjusting in sleep. I pressed my palm into the fabric and the cotton inside resettled with a soft sigh, warm.

* * *

Tsukumogami are objects that grow souls after a hundred years. Not many are left. Most people recycle too fast now—modules, socks, utensils. Nothing lasts long enough to dream.

Obaa-chan never replaced anything unless she had to. Her things were patched, recharged, mended. Even her rice cooker had a chipped display and an outdated voice assistant that only spoke Kansai dialect. So of course her ofuton had lived long enough to talk.

It didn’t float or glow. It just…spoke. And occasionally wriggled toward the heat vents when I wasn’t looking.

* * *

At first, it helped. It told me stories about Obaa-chan—how she cried the first time gravity control failed and her tea drifted away, how she missed the scent of real dirt. The ofuton smelled like sleep and sunlit air and orbit.

But then it started unraveling.

Tufts of fiber caught in the ventilation intake. Feather dust floating like spores. The weave on the fabric loosening, warping in the recycled light.

I tried to fix it. Sewed shut the tears with emergency thread from the medkit. Tried adhesive patches. Even followed a how-to vid on restoring legacy-era materials. But the repairs didn’t hold. The tears came back, a little wider each time.

“It’s not the stitches,” it wheezed. “I’m…forgetting.”

* * *

I skipped remote physics class to find the maintenance technician in the heritage ward—the oldest section of the colony, where the first-gen settlers had recreated a Kyoto alley in recycled carbon panels.

“Tsukumogami?” the technician said, raising an eyebrow. “Haven’t heard that word in years.”

She poured me warmed barley water.

“Objects remember through us,” she said. “You have to tell it who it is.”

“I have to…talk to it?”

She nodded. “Think of it like a suture. Memory’s what holds the seams.”

“But I don’t know who it was to her,” I said.

She smiled without answering.

But that night, I realized I did. I’d seen her pat it every morning before rolling it away, murmuring things I hadn’t understood. She talked to it like it was a friend. A witness. Maybe even a piece of her.

* * *

That night, I took the ofuton to the light panel nearest the oxygen garden and knelt beside it. I placed my hand on the thinning fabric and whispered:

“Obaa-chan used to peel mikan and arrange the slices in circles, like solar panels.”

The ofuton twitched.

“She let me watch her write our family name in brush calligraphy, even though the ink dried out decades ago.”

A soft, rustling sound. Not quite a purr.

“She said there used to be real frogs, and cicadas you couldn’t mute. She kept recordings.”

“You were the last thing she touched before sleep. You held her knees when they ached. You warmed her spine when the sun-lamps went dim. She trusted you.”

The ofuton grew heavier. Fuller.

I kept going.

About the time we celebrated Tanabata with holographic stars and she cried anyway. About how she taught me to fold tsuru and tape them to the ceiling. About the lullaby I never learned the words to, but she hummed when gravity made me sick.

The ofuton warmed under my hands.

I lay down and it curled around me. It smelled like stillness and moss and the distance between stars. It sang in threads.

* * *

For a while, it stabilized.

I told it stories every night. It stayed stitched. No new tears. Even the weave around the edges grew taut again.

But one morning, I woke up and it was silent.

No hum. No tug toward the warm vents.

When I touched it, the fabric thinned like skin. Fibers gave way like breath. I tried patching. Whispered everything I knew. But it only grew lighter.

Then, with a sound like a sigh, it collapsed into a small pile of feathers and thread.

The oxygen monitor blinked blue in the corner. A gentle artificial breeze stirred the threads, almost like breath, almost like the sea Obaa-chan once described to me—the sound of waves against a stone wall she hadn’t seen in sixty years.

* * *

I gathered the remains into a pressurized pouch from the lab and labeled it with Obaa-chan’s kanji. I stitched a strip of her apron fabric around the seal. I keep it in my sleeping berth now, tucked between the storage unit and the emergency blanket.

On quiet rotations, I hold it to my chest and close my eyes. The silence is full of presence.

Sometimes, I catch the scent again—green tea, static, and something I now know was gravity, remembered.

Sometimes, when I hum the old commercial jingle, the pouch shifts, just a little. Like it’s listening.

I think maybe that’s who it is now. Not just Obaa-chan’s ofuton.

Mine, too.

* * *

Ⓒ Mizuki Yamagen