The Mirror Theater shattered — not with a roar, but with a sigh.
A single thread of the red kimono had come undone at the collar, but the damage was done.
The garment *remembered pain now*.
It remembered resistance.
It remembered **Aya**.
And so, when the glass beneath her feet cracked like frozen water, and the void beneath the stage began to *breathe*, Ren did not reach for her.
He stepped back.
"The theater is rejecting you," he said, voice low. "Because you are no longer what it needs."
Aya stood, trembling, one hand still clutching the torn edge of the kimono.
The fabric pulsed against her skin — wounded, but not dead.
It whispered, not in threats, but in something worse:
*Grief.*
> _"You were going to be perfect."_
Then, like a breath exhaled from a thousand mirrors, the world *folded*.
Not gently.
Violently.
The labyrinth of glass splintered.
The Twelve Dancers vanished into smoke.
The fire rings snuffed out.
And Aya fell.
Not down.
*Through.*
---
She woke on wet stone.
Cold.
Dark.
Alone.
The air smelled of moss, incense, and something older —
the scent of **forgotten things**.
She sat up slowly.
She was no longer in the Mirror Theater.
She was in a **cave**, its ceiling studded with glowing lichen like fallen stars.
A narrow river of black water wound through the center, silent, reflecting nothing.
Along its banks, **hundreds of paper lanterns** floated — not lit by flame, but by *names*, written in ink that shimmered like dew.
And at the far end, seated on a stone, a woman.
Blind.
Hair white as snow, cascading down her back like a waterfall of ash.
Dressed in a tattered gray kimono, its sleeves long enough to drag in the water.
Her fingers moved over a small *shamisen* — not playing music, but *feeling* it.
And from her lips —
—a lullaby.
Not Aya's lullaby.
But one *older*.
A song of moonlight and loss.
Of names whispered into the wind.
Of souls too heavy to fly.
Aya knew, without being told:
This was the **Moon Singer**.
The one who remembered what the world had erased.
She stood.
The red kimono resisted — dragging like chains — but she walked forward.
The river hissed as she stepped onto the path.
The Moon Singer stopped singing.
Her milky eyes turned toward Aya.
"You're late," she said.
Her voice was like wind through a hollow reed.
"I've been singing your name for three nights."
Aya froze.
"…You know me?"
"I know all the ones who forget."
The woman plucked a single string.
A name glowed in the water: **AYA**.
Then faded.
"Names are fragile things. They dissolve in silence. In time. In* red silk*."
She tilted her head.
"You've torn it. But not enough."
Aya touched the torn collar.
"It's still in me."
"The kimono is not cloth," the Moon Singer said.
"It is a *grave*.
It buries the ones who wanted to be remembered —
and makes them unforgettable by stealing what made them *real*."
She strummed again.
Another name: **REN**.
It burned longer.
Then cracked.
"He was the first.
But he was not the first to *sing*."
Aya stepped closer.
"You sing names. Why?"
"Because if no one sings them," the Moon Singer said, "they cease to have ever existed."
She reached into the river.
Pulled out a strand of wet thread — black, but pulsing with faint gold.
"This is a *memory anchor*.
Woven from the last song a forgotten artist sang before they vanished.
I collect them.
I sing them.
I keep them from dissolving into the dark."
She held it out.
"For you."
Aya reached for it.
The moment her fingers touched the thread —
—a *flood*.
---
### 🌑 Vision: *The First Song – 1503*
A young man sits beneath a cherry tree in full bloom, playing a *biwa*.
He is **Kaito Minakata** — not the photographer.
Not the dancer from 1923.
But the *first*.
A wandering musician who sang of love, war, and impermanence.
His voice could make rivers pause.
His songs were said to heal the sick.
But no one wrote them down.
No one preserved them.
When he died — alone, in the rain — his music died with him.
But not quite.
On his deathbed, he sang one final song — not for glory, not for fame.
For a child who had brought him food during his illness.
A simple melody about a sparrow who carried sunlight in its beak.
And as he died, a woman knelt beside him.
Listened.
Wept.
And when he was gone —
— she pulled a single thread from her kimono.
Dipped it in his tears.
And whispered his song into it.
That thread became the **first anchor**.
And the woman became the **first Moon Singer**.
And so the chain began.
Not of dancers.
Not of yokai.
Of *memory*.
Of those who refused to let beauty vanish without a witness.
---
### 🌑 Back to the Cave
Aya gasped, pulling back.
Tears streamed down her face.
She looked at the thread in her hand — now glowing faintly, like a dying star.
"You're saying," she whispered, "that art isn't in the dance…
it's in the* remembering*?"
The Moon Singer nodded.
"And the* forgetting*."
She strummed once more.
Aya's name reappeared — stronger this time.
"But the kimono doesn't just take names.
It takes the* right to be forgotten*.
And that… is the cruelest theft of all."
Aya clutched the anchor.
Pressed it to her chest.
"I want to remember," she said.
"Even the pain.
Even the loss.
Even the ones I've already forgotten."
The Moon Singer smiled — a rare, fragile thing.
"Then you must learn to sing."
She placed the shamisen in Aya's hands.
"Not for an audience.
Not for eternity.
But for the one who needs to hear it."
She touched Aya's throat.
"Sing your own name.
As if you've just found it."
Aya closed her eyes.
The red kimono hissed — a warning.
But she opened her mouth.
And sang.
Not a lullaby.
Not a chant.
Not a performance.
Just two words.
**"Aya Kurenai."**
Soft.
Trembling.
*Real*.
The thread in her hand *blazed*.
The lanterns along the river ignited — one by one — each bearing her name.
The river reflected not darkness, but *light*.
And deep in the folds of the red kimono —
— something *wept*.
Not in anger.
In **longing**.
For the voice it had stolen.
For the name it had consumed.
For the humanity it had erased.
The Moon Singer placed a hand on Aya's shoulder.
"You've begun," she said.
"But the kimono will fight.
Ren will mourn.
The Mirror Theater will call you back."
She leaned close.
"And when you return to the world of breath and blood…
remember this:
The most dangerous thing in the world
is not a yokai.
Not a curse.
Not a red kimono."
She whispered:
> **"It is a woman who remembers her own name."**
Outside the cave, the first light of dawn touched the water.
Aya stood.
The anchor was woven now into the torn edge of her kimono — a single thread of gold in a sea of red.
She was not free.
But she was *awake*.
And she was no longer alone.
Because somewhere, in the waking world, a camera clicked.
A sister stepped off a train.
A detective opened a file.
And the song had begun.