The NHK Hall shimmered like a shrine.
Crystal chandeliers. The red carpet rolled like a river of blood. Cameras lined the walls like silent sentinels. The audience — critics, celebrities, politicians, fans — sat in hushed anticipation, programs clutched like prayer books.
> **Tonight's Performance:**
> *Traditional Japanese Dance – Special Guest: Aya Kurenai*
> *Piece: "The Crane and the Willow"*
But everyone knew the truth.
They weren't here for tradition.
They were here for the *ghost*.
Backstage, Aya stood alone.
The red kimono clung to her, tighter than ever, its threads pulsing like veins. The counter-thread at her obi glowed faintly — gold against the deep crimson — but its warmth was fading, as if the darkness around her was *consuming* light.
Her reflection in the dressing mirror didn't move with her.
It watched.
Waiting.
She touched her face.
"Just one dance," she whispered. "Just one dance where I'm *me*."
A knock.
The door opened.
Kaito.
He wore a simple black suit, camera in hand, not as a guest — he wasn't invited — but as a trespasser with a mission.
"I got in through the stage crew," he said. "I'm not leaving until I see you dance."
Aya's breath caught.
She wanted to tell him to go. To run. To forget her.
But the words wouldn't come.
Instead, she said: "You shouldn't be here."
"I know," he said. "But neither should *that*." He nodded at the kimono. "It's worse tonight, isn't it?"
She didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
He stepped closer. "Whatever happens out there… don't let it take you. Not all the way."
He reached into his coat.
Pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.
"A letter," he said. "From your sister. Yumi. She's coming to Tokyo. She says she has something — a ritual, a memory, *something* — that can pull you back."
Aya took it.
The moment her fingers touched the paper, a memory *flickered*:
> *Yumi, age ten, pressing a flower into her palm. "This is a protection charm. It'll keep the bad dreams away."*
> *Aya, laughing. "There are no bad dreams."*
> *Yumi, serious. "There will be."*
Then — gone.
Aya clutched the letter like a lifeline.
Kaito touched her hand.
"I'll be in the shadows," he said. "Watching. Remembering. *Holding on*."
He left.
The door closed.
Silence.
Then —
—a whisper from the kimono:
> _"He thinks love can save you."_
> _"How… quaint."_
And from the mirror:
> _"Dance for him. And I will dance for him*."_
---
### 🌑 The Performance
The lights dimmed.
A single spotlight bloomed on the stage.
And Aya stepped forward.
Not in the *Neo-Kimono*. Not in glitter or light.
She wore the **red kimono** — pure, unaltered, its black lining like veins beneath skin.
The audience gasped.
Not at her beauty.
At the *weight* of her presence.
She moved to the center.
Bowed.
Silence.
Then — music.
Not the traditional *shamisen* or flute.
But something *older*.
A slow, mournful *nōkan* (Noh flute), a drumbeat like a dying heart, a voice — wordless, genderless — humming in a language not of this world.
The cameras zoomed in.
Her eyes were open.
But not *seeing* the audience.
She was seeing *through* them.
Into the dark.
And then — she began to dance.
*The Crane and the Willow.*
Slow. Precise. Haunting.
Every movement is a memory. Every gesture is a prayer.
But halfway through —
— she changed.
Not the choreography.
The *piece*.
She shifted into a sequence no one recognized.
Her arms twisted like burning branches.
Her spine arched like a bowstring.
Her feet traced a pattern in the dust — a spiral, a seal, a *summoning*.
The audience didn't realize it yet.
But the **elderly woman in the front row** did.
Madame Satsuki.
Her face paled.
She clutched her cane.
*"No…"* she whispered. *"She's dancing… the* Crimson Chrysanthemum*."*
---
### 📜 The Forbidden Dance
*The Crimson Chrysanthemum* was not a piece of art.
It was a **ritual**.
Created centuries ago by a dancer who tried to *bind* a yokai, not flee it.
Each movement was a knot in a spiritual chain.
Each breath, an incantation.
Each step, a plea — or a curse.
It had been banned after the dancer vanished mid-performance, her body found days later — *still standing*, frozen in the final pose, eyes open, mouth screaming soundlessly.
No one had danced it since.
Until now.
Aya spun.
Her fan snapped open — not white, but *black*, as if dipped in ink.
The music grew louder.
The lights flickered.
And then —
—a second spotlight.
From the *back* of the stage.
On the mirror wall behind her.
And in it —
— **he** appeared.
Ren.
Not from the sides. Not from the wings.
From the *glass*.
He stepped forward — not onto the stage.
But *into* it.
Dressed in black kimono lined with red.
Face serene. Eyes full of sorrow.
The audience didn't see him.
They saw only Aya — dancing alone.
But the cameras did.
For one frame —
— the mirror showed *two* dancers.
And then, in perfect sync, Aya and Ren began to move.
Not against each other.
With each other.
A duet of beauty and damnation.
As they danced, the air grew cold.
The red kimono *glowed*, its threads writhing like serpents.
And in the mirror, Aya's reflection stepped *out*.
Not a shadow.
Not a trick of light.
A *second Aya*.
Dressed in the same kimono.
Eyes empty.
Smiling.
And it began to dance — not on the stage.
But *on the ceiling*.
Upside down.
Backwards.
Still in perfect time.
The audience gasped.
Some thought it was a projection.
A special effect.
But Madame Satsuki stood.
Detective Morita, seated in the back, scribbled in his notebook:
> **"Subject: Aya Kurenai**
> **Phenomenon: Duality observed. Reflection moving independently. Yokai presence confirmed.**
> **Conclusion: The 13th has begun the ritual."**
On stage, Aya and Ren reached the climax.
They faced each other.
Hands nearly touching.
And in unison, they whispered — not in Japanese.
In a language older than names:
> _"*Kuzu-no-Ki…*"_
The ground trembled.
The mirror cracked.
And for one heartbeat —
— the world *saw*.
Not a dancer.
Not a star.
But a **war**.
Between memory and oblivion.
Between love and possession.
Between a girl… and the dance that wanted to *become* her.
Then —
— the lights went out.
When they returned…
Aya stood alone.
Panting.
The red kimono is steaming, as if burned.
Ren was gone.
The reflection had vanished.
But in the mirror —
— a single crimson chrysanthemum bloomed in the glass.
And on the stage floor…
A drop of blood.
Not from Aya.
From the *fan*.
She looked up.
Somewhere, in the dark, a flute began to play.
And a voice — soft, sad, certain — whispered:
> _"You called me. You danced for me. You are mine."_