Aya didn't sleep.
She couldn't.
The red kimono coiled around her like a serpent made of silk, its threads pulsing with a rhythm that wasn't hers. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt it — a slow *unraveling*, like thread pulled from a seam, one memory at a time.
She sat on the edge of her bed in the Hoshino Suite, staring at the full-length mirror across the room.
It was tall, framed in black lacquer, its surface slightly warped, as if it had absorbed too many secrets.
She hadn't asked for it.
It hadn't been there yesterday.
But last night, when she returned from the tea house, it stood in the corner — silent, expectant.
And now, as the first light of dawn bled through the curtains, she realized:
Her reflection wasn't copying her.
It was *waiting*.
She raised her right hand.
The reflection raised its left.
Aya froze.
She tried again — slow, deliberate. Right hand up.
The reflection lifted its *left*.
Not a mirror image.
A *reversed* one.
Like someone standing across from her.
She stood. Took a step forward.
The reflection didn't move.
It just… *watched*.
Its face was hers — the same sharp cheekbones, the same dark eyes — but softer. Colder. As if it had been carved from porcelain and filled with smoke.
Then, slowly, it smiled.
Aya's breath caught.
She hadn't smiled.
She stepped back.
The reflection leaned forward, pressing a hand against the glass.
Aya turned away, heart pounding.
"It's just the light," she whispered. "Just shadows. Just… exhaustion."
She went to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, avoided the mirror above the sink.
But when she looked up —
—the same face stared back.
Same smile.
Same stillness.
She tore a towel from the rack and threw it over the mirror.
Silence.
For a moment, she thought it was over.
Then, from behind the towel —
—a soft *tap*.
Like a fingernail against glass.
She didn't move.
Another tap.
Then a whisper — not in the air, but inside her skull:
> _"You kissed him."_
Aya backed away.
> _"You let him remember you."_
She covered her ears.
> _"But I am the one who watches. I am the one who stays. I am the one who* dances *when you sleep."_
She ran.
Out of the suite, down the elevator, into the streets.
She didn't know where she was going.
Only that she had to *move*.
She ended up at a rehearsal studio in Roppongi — one of the few places Tetsuo hadn't yet claimed for "brand synergy." It was empty, sterile, lit by fluorescent lights. A single mirror on the far wall.
She stepped inside.
Locked the door.
Turned on the music — a traditional *shamisen* piece, one her grandmother loved.
And she danced.
Not for fame. Not for Ren. Not for the world.
For *herself*.
She poured every fear, every loss, every flicker of memory into the movements — the crane, the willow, the falling star. She spun, leapt, collapsed, rose again.
And then —
— she saw it.
In the mirror.
She was dancing.
But *behind* her, in the reflection, another figure moved.
Not mimicking.
*Dueling*.
It was her — but taller, smoother, more precise. Every motion flawless. Every expression empty.
And when Aya stopped…
The reflection kept dancing.
Slowly, it turned to face her.
Smiled.
And mouthed three words:
> **"I am you."**
Aya stumbled back, knocking over a speaker. The music died.
The reflection froze.
Then, in perfect sync with her, it raised a hand — and pressed it against the glass.
Aya did the same.
Their palms met.
And for a heartbeat —
— she felt it.
Not cold glass.
But *warmth*.
And a pull.
Like the mirror was breathing.
Like it wanted her *inside*.
She tore her hand away.
Ran.
Back to the suite.
She didn't look at the covered mirror.
She crawled into bed, pulled the sheets over her head.
But in the dark, she heard it —
—a soft, rhythmic *tapping*.
Not from the mirror.
From *inside* the kimono.
As if something was stitching itself deeper into her skin.
And just before sleep took her, a whisper — not from the reflection, not from Ren, but from the garment itself:
> _"You are no longer the dancer._
> _You are the dance."_