She returned not with a scream, but with silence.
One moment, the cave of the Moon Singer — the river of names, the lanterns glowing like stars in ink — and the next, Aya stood on a sidewalk in Shibuya, beneath the blinding glow of digital billboards and the roar of a thousand voices.
Rain fell.
Cold.
Artificial.
Washed with the neon reflections of her own face.
Because there she was.
Giant.
Glowing.
*Unreal*.
On every screen:
**AYA KURENAI – THE GHOST DANCER**
Her image from the NHK performance — eyes half-lidded, fan arcing like a blade, red kimono rippling — looped in endless rotation.
Below it:
> *"Is she human?"*
> *"The Devil's Muse."*
> *"Japan's Most Haunting Star."*
A couple walked past, filming her with their phone.
"She's even more beautiful in person," the girl whispered.
The boy nodded.
"She doesn't look real."
Aya touched her face.
It was hers.
But not.
The red kimono clung to her, heavier than before.
Not just on her skin — *in* it.
The torn thread at the collar had sealed itself overnight, the silk knitting back together like living flesh.
But the **golden anchor** — the Moon Singer's thread — still pulsed faintly beneath, like a heartbeat fighting through stone.
She looked down at her hands.
They trembled.
Not from fear.
From *memory*.
She remembered singing her name.
She remembered the cave.
She remembered Ren kneeling.
The Twelve Dancers weeping.
And yet —
—the world saw only the myth.
And the myth was *hungry*.
---
### 🎤 The Interview
They found her within the hour.
Not fans.
Not paparazzi.
A production crew in matching black vests, holding clipboards like sacred texts.
"Miss Kurenai!" the lead assistant said, breathless. "We've been *searching* for you! The *Weekly Bungei* special airs in two hours — you're the cover story!"
Aya didn't move.
"The interview was canceled."
"It *was*," the woman said, "but then you vanished after NHK, and the ratings team panicked. Then you *reappeared* — it's perfect! The mystery deepens!" She snapped her fingers. "Car's waiting. Makeup, wardrobe, script — all ready."
Aya's stomach twisted.
*Script?*
They ushered her into a sleek black van.
No windows.
No sky.
Just mirrors on every wall — small, framed, *watching*.
As they drove, a stylist began adjusting her hair.
Another dabbed powder on her face.
A third held up a tablet showing the **interview outline**:
> **Segment 1: The Mystery**
> "Where did you go after NHK?"
> *(Suggested Answer: "I was preparing my next transformation.")*
>
> **Segment 2: The Red Kimono**
> "Is it cursed?"
> *(Suggested Answer: "It chooses who it belongs to.")*
>
> **Segment 3: Love & Loss**
> "Do you have someone you dance for?"
> *(Suggested Answer: "I dance for the one who sees me… even when I'm not there.")*
Aya stared at the words.
They were *lies*.
But not just lies.
They were *invitations*.
The kimono **wanted** her to say them.
She could feel it — a slow pull in her chest, like silk threading through her ribs.
The words on the screen began to *glow*.
The mirrors hummed.
And then —
—a whisper from the garment:
> _"Say them.
> Become the myth.
> Become eternal."_
She closed her eyes.
And sang — not aloud, but in her mind — the Moon Singer's lullaby.
The golden thread flared.
The mirrors *flickered*.
The stylist paused.
"You okay? You went pale."
Aya opened her eyes.
"I'm fine."
And for the first time since the deal —
— she *lied on purpose*.
Not because the kimono made her.
But because she *chose* to.
To survive.
To listen.
To wait.
---
### 📺 The Broadcast
The studio was a temple of light.
Cameras like sentinels.
Lights like suns.
A host with a smile too perfect, eyes too sharp.
"Welcome back, Aya," he said, voice warm, gaze clinical. "You've been gone. The world missed you."
She sat.
The red kimono *tightened* — not in warning.
In *anticipation*.
"Did it?" she asked.
The host laughed. "Three million tweets a day asking where you went. Some say you died. Some say you ascended. Some say you were taken by a spirit." He leaned in. "Which is it?"
The camera zoomed in.
The audience held its breath.
Aya smiled.
Not her smile.
*The reflection's smile.*
"I didn't go anywhere," she said.
"I was always here.
You just couldn't see me."
The studio *inhaled*.
The host: "That's… poetic. Almost supernatural."
Aya tilted her head. "Isn't all beauty supernatural? The way a cherry blossom falls? The way a voice breaks in a song? The way a woman can wear red… and make the world forget her name?"
The kimono *purred*.
The golden thread burned.
She was feeding it — the myth, the mystery, the *hunger*.
But she was also feeding *herself* —
planting seeds in the silence:
*Name.*
*Forget.*
*Woman.*
The host moved to the next question.
"The red kimono — is it alive?"
Aya touched the fabric at her collar.
"It breathes.
It remembers.
It *chooses*."
She looked directly into the camera.
"Just like love."
A collective shiver ran through the audience.
Then —
—the final question.
"Is there someone you love? Someone you dance for?"
The room went still.
Aya hesitated.
The kimono *clenched* — waiting for the lie:
> *"I dance for the unseen."*
But instead —
— she closed her eyes.
And whispered:
> "I dance for the one who* remembers* me.
> Even when I forget myself."
Silence.
Then —
—a single tear fell.
Not from sorrow.
From *resistance*.
The golden thread *blazed*.
And in the monitor's reflection —
—for just one frame —
— her reflection *did not cry*.
It *screamed*.
---
### 📸 Interlude: *Kaito's Apartment – Midnight*
Kaito watched the broadcast alone.
The screen flickered.
He rewound the last line.
> *"I dance for the one who remembers me."*
He played it again.
And again.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
He opened his laptop.
Uploaded a new photo.
Not from the interview.
From *before* —
Aya laughing at the riverbank, sunlight in her hair, hand mid-gesture as she told a joke he'd forgotten.
Caption:
> **"I remember you.
> And I always will."**
He hit *post*.
Within minutes:
- Shares: 12,000
- Comments: "Who is she?" "This feels real." "I miss real art."
- One reply, anonymous:
> *"She is not yours to remember."*
Kaito stared at it.
Then typed:
> *"She was never yours to forget."*
He closed the laptop.
Looked out the window.
In the reflection of the glass —
—for just a second —
—a woman in red watched him back.
Then vanished.
---
### 🌑 Back to Aya
They took her back to the suite in silence.
No praise.
No celebration.
Just a curt nod from Tetsuo's assistant:
"You played the game well. He'll be pleased."
Aya stood before the full-length mirror in her room.
She didn't cover it this time.
She stared.
And her reflection stared back.
Same face.
Same kimono.
Same eyes.
But when Aya raised her right hand —
— the reflection raised its *left*.
And then —
—it *spoke*.
Not in sound.
In the glass.
Words etched in frost:
> **"You are running out of time."**
Aya didn't flinch.
She placed her palm against the mirror.
And whispered:
> "So are you."
Outside, the city pulsed with her image.
But inside —
—the war had changed.
No longer dancer vs. yokai.
No longer girl vs. ghost.
Now:
**Memory vs. myth.**
**Truth vs. beauty.**
**Aya vs. the world that wanted to forget her —
even as it worshipped her name.**
And she would not stop singing.