Rain fell over Tokyo in silver needles, washing the city clean of memory.
In a dim apartment in Shinjuku, Kaito Tanaka sat surrounded by photographs.
Not prints.
*Ghosts*.
Every image he had taken of Aya — from their first meeting at the riverbank to the night of the NHK performance — had begun to *fade*.
Not from time.
From *erasure*.
The smiles. The sunlight. The way her hair caught the wind.
All dissolving, like ink in water.
He had scanned them. Backed them up. Printed them on archival paper.
It didn't matter.
One by one, they were vanishing.
Except for one.
The photograph from the NHK Hall.
The one *he never took*.
It lay on his desk — not in his camera roll, not in his memory.
It simply *appeared*.
A Polaroid, edge-burned, as if pulled from fire.
On it:
Aya, mid-dance.
But not on the stage.
In the **Mirror Theater**.
Endless reflections stretching into darkness.
Her red kimono glowing like embers.
And behind her —
— Ren, not as a man, but as a **shadow with a face**, his hand resting on her shoulder.
And in the glass —
— a second Aya.
Not dancing.
*Weeping*.
At the bottom, in faded ink, a date:
**October 33rd**
—a day that did not exist.
Kaito's hands trembled.
He opened his laptop.
Scrolled through his research:
- Disappearances of artists since 1703.
- Red kimonos in shrine offerings.
- The legend of the *Crimson Chain*.
- The forbidden dance: *Kuzu-no-Ki*.
- And one name repeated in every file, in every whisper:
**Rin Aoyama**.
He clicked.
A single document opened — a digitized scroll from the Daisho Archive.
> **"The First Crimson Dancer – 1703"**
> *Rin Aoyama, prodigy of Noh dance, vanished during performance of 'The Falling Petal.' Witnesses claim he danced for twelve hours without stopping. At dawn, he collapsed — but his body remained standing. When touched, it crumbled to ash. Only his fan remained, inscribed with a single phrase: "I forgot my name."*
> *Note: His final journal entry reads: "I made a deal with the Mirror Man. I wanted to be eternal. He said I already was. I just didn't know it yet."*
Kaito stared.
Then, slowly, he understood.
Ren was not just a yokai.
He was **the first**.
The original dancer who made the pact.
And now, 300 years later, he was repeating the cycle.
With Aya.
Kaito grabbed his camera.
He didn't care if the photos would fade.
He would keep taking them.
Until someone *remembered*.
Until the world saw the truth.
Because if art was memory —
then every photograph was a rebellion.
And every memory was a weapon.
---
### 🌑 Flashback: *The First Crimson Dancer – Kyoto, 1703*
Cherry blossoms fell like snow.
The Noh theater was full — daimyo, monks, courtesans, even the shogun's envoy. All had come to see **Rin Aoyama**, the boy who danced like the wind had taught him.
He was young. Beautiful. *Obsessed*.
Not with fame.
With **perfection**.
He believed dance should not be felt — it should be *remembered forever*. That every movement should echo in the soul of the world.
But no one remembered.
Not truly.
So he danced harder. Longer. Until his feet bled. Until his breath failed. Until the audience clapped, but still — *no one remembered his name*.
That night, he returned to the theater.
Alone.
And danced.
Not for them.
For the **unseen**.
And the mirror answered.
A man stepped out — in black kimono, red lining, face like a Noh mask come to life.
"You dance beautifully," he said. "But still, they forget."
Rin panted. "I want to be eternal."
The man smiled. "You already are. You just don't know it yet."
He offered a hand.
"A dance," he said. "If you win, I will make your art *unforgettable*. If you lose… you will serve me."
Rin did not hesitate.
They danced.
Twelve hours.
No music. No audience. Just the rhythm of breath and shadow.
And when dawn came —
— Rin collapsed.
But his body did not fall.
It stood.
Still.
Perfect.
And the man knelt.
Whispered:
> "You have won. You will be remembered."
> "But to be eternal, you must no longer be human."
> "So I will take your name. Your face. Your heart."
> "And in return… you will become *me*."
Rin opened his eyes.
But they were no longer his.
They were *storm-gray*.
And when he looked in the mirror —
—he saw not a boy.
But a **king**.
The man in black bowed.
"Welcome," he said, "to the Mirror Theater."
And as the cherry blossoms fell, the first Crimson Dancer took his place.
And waited.
For the next.
And the next.
And the next.
Until the **Thirteenth**.
---
### 📸 Back to the Present
Kaito closed the scroll.
His hands were steady now.
He picked up the cursed Polaroid.
Stared at Aya's weeping reflection.
And whispered:
> "I remember you."
The camera in his hand *clicked* — though he hadn't pressed the button.
A new photo slid out.
On it:
Aya, standing in a field of shattered mirrors.
The red kimono in tatters.
Her eyes open.
Her mouth forming a single word.
**"Soon."**
Kaito smiled.
He pinned it to the wall.
Surrounded by all the fading photos.
And beneath them, he wrote in bold ink:
> **"AYA KURENAI – SHE WAS HERE. SHE WAS LOVED. SHE WAS REAL."**
Outside, the rain stopped.
And for the first time in days, the moon broke through the clouds.
Shining down —
—not on a star.
—not on a ghost.
—but on a **witness**.
And somewhere, in a room where a red kimono pulsed like a heart,
Aya stirred in her sleep.
And for one breath,
she remembered his name.