Sleep was no longer an escape.
It was an **invasion**.
The moment Aya closed her eyes, the world dissolved — not into darkness, but into *fire*.
She stood on a stage.
Not the NHK Hall.
Not the Mirror Theater.
But a place older.
A **Noh theater**, its wooden beams blackened by centuries, its paper lanterns alight with ghost-flame.
The air smelled of camphor, ash, and something sweetly rotten — like chrysanthemums left too long in a tomb.
Above, the sky was not sky.
It was **glass**.
Endless mirrors, cracked and weeping, reflecting not her, but *hundreds of Ayas* —
dancing.
burning.
screaming.
*forgetting*.
And in the audience —
— no faces.
Only shadows, seated in perfect silence, their hands folded, their heads bowed.
Watching.
Waiting.
For her to *vanish*.
Then — music.
Not from instruments.
From the **walls**.
A slow, dissonant *nōkan* flute, playing a melody that wasn't meant for human ears.
A drumbeat like a heart buried under stone.
And beneath it all —
—a whisper, rising from the floorboards:
> _"Dance."_
She tried to move.
But her feet were rooted.
The red kimono *tightened*, not around her body —
but around her *mind*.
It began to move for her.
Her arms lifted.
Her spine arched.
Her fan snapped open — not white.
Not black.
*Ash-gray*.
And she began to dance.
Not *The Crane and the Willow*.
Not *The Crimson Chrysanthemum*.
A new piece.
One she had never learned.
One that *remembered her*.
Each step burned.
Each turn pulled at her soul.
Each gesture carved a name into the air —
not in ink.
In *flame*.
> **AYA**
> **KURENAI**
> **GRANDMOTHER**
> **HARU**
> **KAITO**
> **YUMI**
The names blazed across the stage — bright, beautiful, *doomed*.
And as they burned, the kimono *fed*.
It grew stronger.
Darker.
More *real*.
And the audience — the shadows — began to *clap*.
Not with hands.
With **memory**.
Each clap erased a fragment:
- The taste of green tea with Kaito.
- The sound of Haru's laugh.
- The feel of Yumi's hand in hers as children.
Gone.
Not forgotten.
*Consumed*.
Then — from the wings — **he** appeared.
Ren.
But not as the man in black.
As a **shadow with a face**, his body woven from smoke and shattered glass.
His eyes were no longer storm-gray.
They were *empty* — two voids where centuries of sorrow had been scraped clean.
He did not speak.
He simply raised his hand.
And the stage **burned**.
Flames rose not from wood, but from the *names* — consuming them, turning them to ash.
The heat was not physical.
It was *existential* — the pain of being unmade.
Aya tried to scream.
But the kimono filled her mouth with silk.
Then — a voice.
Not from Ren.
Not from the shadows.
From the **golden thread** at her collar.
Faint.
Fragile.
But *there*.
> _"Sing."_
She couldn't.
Her voice was gone.
But she remembered.
She remembered the Moon Singer's cave.
The river of names.
The lullaby about the sparrow with sunlight in its beak.
And so —
—in the silence between heartbeats, in the space where dreams are devoured —
she **sang**.
Not aloud.
Not with lips.
With *memory*.
A single note.
Pure.
Human.
*Unperfect*.
The fire hesitated.
The audience stilled.
Ren turned.
And for the first time, his empty eyes *flickered*.
The golden thread *glowed* — just at the collar, just at the wrist — a tiny rebellion in the dark.
And the dream *cracked*.
Not shattered.
Not ended.
But *changed*.
Because dreams, like memories, are not owned.
They are *shared*.
And somewhere — in the waking world —
**someone else was dreaming too**.
---
### 🌑 Vision: *Kaito's Dream*
He sat on the edge of his bed, camera in hand, watching the interview replay for the tenth time.
Then, without meaning to, he fell asleep.
And he dreamed of her.
Not as the Ghost Dancer.
Not as the woman in red.
As **Aya**.
Standing in the rain at the riverbank, holding a broken fan.
Smiling at him like he was the only person in the world.
"You're remembering," she said.
"I never stopped," he whispered.
She reached out.
Touched his hand.
It was warm.
*Real*.
"Then help me," she said.
"Not by watching.
Not by photographing.
But by* dancing*."
"Dance?" he said. "I can't—"
"You already have," she said.
"You dance every time you remember me."
Behind her, the river began to glow.
Lanterns rose from the water — each bearing her name.
And from the shadows, a lullaby began to play.
Kaito opened his mouth.
And sang.
Not well.
Not beautifully.
But *true*.
And in that moment —
—the dream *connected*.
Across the city.
Across the veil.
Across the silence.
Two souls, dreaming the same fire.
Two voices, singing the same name.
And the burning stage —
— began to *cool*.
---
### 🌑 Back to Aya's Dream
The flames dimmed.
The audience recoiled.
Ren stood frozen — not in anger.
In **recognition**.
He looked at Aya.
And for the first time, he did not speak as the Prince of the Forgotten.
But as **Rin**.
The boy who danced.
The man who loved.
The spirit who had forgotten how.
"You're not alone," he whispered.
And it wasn't a threat.
It was a *warning*.
Because the kimono *screamed* — a sound like tearing silk, like a thousand memories collapsing at once.
It didn't fear death.
It feared **connection**.
The red kimono *convulsed*, trying to sever the dream, to pull Aya back into solitude, into silence, into *perfection*.
But the golden thread held.
And from the edge of the burning stage —
—a new figure stepped forward.
Not Ren.
Not Kaito.
Not a shadow.
**Her grandmother**.
Dressed in a simple indigo kimono, her hair in a loose bun, a fan in her hand.
She did not speak.
She simply began to dance.
*The Crane and the Willow*.
Not flawlessly.
Not eternally.
With *mistakes*.
With *breath*.
With *love*.
And as she danced, the fire turned to cherry blossoms.
They fell like snow.
And Aya —
— began to *remember*.
Not just names.
Not just faces.
The *weight* of love.
The *taste* of loss.
The *sound* of her own laugh.
The dream began to end.
But before it did, her grandmother turned.
Looked at her.
And said:
> "The dance is not in the steps.
> It is in the* space between them*.
> That is where you live.
> That is where you* fight*."
Then —
—the stage vanished.
---
### 🌅 Waking
Aya gasped awake.
Dawn light spilled through the curtains.
Her body was drenched in sweat.
Her hands trembled.
The red kimono lay still — but *watchful*.
On her nightstand, her phone buzzed.
A notification:
> **Kaito Tanaka** posted a photo: *"Dream of the Burning Stage."*
> Caption: *"She's fighting. And I'm not letting go."*
She opened it.
The image was not real.
It was *dream-made* —
a surreal painting of a theater in flames, cherry blossoms falling like embers, and two figures dancing in the center:
one in red, one in shadow.
And beneath it —
—a lullaby, written in shaky kanji.
The same one from the cave.
The same one her grandmother sang.
Aya placed her hand over her heart.
The golden thread pulsed.
And for the first time since the deal, she did not feel alone.
Because the dream had not been hers.
It had been **theirs**.
And dreams —
— are harder to erase than memories.