Rain fell over Tokyo like a slow confession.
Aya stood beneath the awning of a tiny tea house in Yanaka, the red kimono hidden beneath a long black coat. The counter-thread at her obi pulsed faintly, warm against her hip — a tiny ember in the cold.
She had come here on instinct.
*Green tea. Camphor. A woman humming an old lullaby.*
The scent had returned in fragments since Yuriko gave her the thread. Not full memories — just echoes. Like footsteps in an empty hall.
The tea house was narrow, lit by paper lanterns, its walls lined with scrolls of calligraphy. A sign read:
**"No cameras. No phones. Just tea, time, and silence."**
Perfect.
She slid into a corner seat, ordered *matcha* the way her grandmother liked it — thick, bitter, served in a chipped bowl.
And then, he walked in.
Kaito Tanaka.
Camera slung over his shoulder. Hair damp from the rain. A sketchbook tucked under one arm.
He didn't see her at first.
But the moment he did — his breath caught.
Not because she was famous now.
But because he *knew* her.
Even if she no longer knew him.
He hesitated. Then approached.
"…Aya?" he said.
She looked up. His face — strong jaw, soft eyes, a scar above his eyebrow from a childhood fall — stirred something deep, like a stone dropped into a well.
"I… I think so," she said. "Do we know each other?"
He froze.
Not with shock. With grief.
"You don't remember me," he said quietly.
"I remember *something*," she admitted. "But it's like… a dream I woke from too soon."
He sat across from her, not asking permission. The tea master poured him a bowl without a word — as if this, too, was meant to be.
"I met you three weeks ago," Kaito said. "At the riverbank. You were practicing a dance. I was photographing cherry blossoms. You dropped your bento. I picked it up. We shared tea."
Aya stared into her bowl. The green swirls looked like smoke.
"I liked your laugh," he added. "It sounded like wind chimes."
She tried to remember.
She *felt* it — the warmth of the sun, the rustle of grass, the way her heart had fluttered when he smiled.
But the memory wouldn't come.
"It's gone," she whispered. "Like so many others."
Kaito studied her. Not with pity. With *recognition*.
"You're different," he said. "Not just famous. *Changed*. Like something's… wearing you."
She tensed.
The red kimono beneath her coat *tightened* — just slightly. A warning.
Kaito reached into his sketchbook and slid out a photo.
It was her.
Not the viral video. Not the staged magazine shots.
This was *before* — standing by the river, mid-dance, sunlight catching the edge of her fan. Her face was alive. Joyful. *Whole*.
"I took this the day we met," he said. "You told me dance was about *feeling*, not perfection. That art should *remember*, not erase."
Aya's chest ached.
She didn't remember saying that.
But she *wanted* to have said it.
She reached for the photo.
The moment her fingers brushed it —
—a flash:
> *Her hand in his as they walked.
> His voice: "I want to photograph every version of you."
> Hers, laughing: "There's only one me."
> His smile: "No. There are infinite. And I'll capture them all."*
Then — gone.
She gasped, pulling back.
Kaito watched her. "You felt it, didn't you? A piece of you."
She nodded, eyes wet. "It hurt."
"That's how you know it's real," he said. "The truth always hurts a little."
Outside, the rain slowed. A single shaft of light broke through the clouds, striking the wet pavement like a spotlight.
Kaito leaned forward.
"I've been researching you. Not the star. The *girl*. And I've found things. Disappearances. Other dancers. Red kimonos. A name — *Ren* — that no one admits exists."
Aya went still.
"The kimono," he said, voice low. "It's not just a costume, is it?"
She didn't answer.
But the coat grew heavier. The thread at her obi glowed brighter — gold against red.
Kaito reached out. Not to touch her. But to place his hand over his heart.
"I remember you," he said. "Even if you don't. And I'm not going to let whatever's taking you win."
Aya looked at him.
And for the first time since the deal, something *shifted* inside her.
Not a memory.
A *feeling*.
Warm. Sharp. Terrifying.
Love.
Not because she remembered him.
But because her soul *recognized* him — even as the kimono tried to smother it.
She opened her mouth to speak.
But then —
—a chime.
Soft. Distant.
Like a flute in the wind.
The red kimono *pulled* at her, sudden and fierce, as if something had called it home.
Aya gasped, clutching her chest.
Kaito grabbed her hand. "What is it?"
"I have to go," she whispered. "*It's calling me.*"
She stood, coat tight around her, the counter-thread pulsing like a warning light.
Kaito stood too. "Let me help you."
"You can't," she said. "This isn't a story with a happy ending."
"Then let me be in the tragedy," he said. "Just don't go alone."
She looked at him — really looked.
And for one fragile second, the kimono *loosened*.
She stepped forward.
And kissed him.
Not long. Not deep.
But real.
The moment their lips met —
—a thousand memories *cracked* open:
> *Laughing in the rain.
> His hands on her waist as she spun.
> Whispering secrets under stars.
> "I love you," he said.
> "I love you more," she replied.*
Then —
—a *snap*.
The kimono *constricted*, hard as iron, burning cold against her skin.
Aya tore away, gasping.
Kaito reached for her.
But the door slammed shut behind her.
She ran.
Through the rain. Through the streets. Through the silence.
And in her mind, a voice — smooth, sorrowful, inevitable — whispered:
> _"You danced for love. But love is a memory. And memories… are mine to take."_