The city woke to rain.
Not the soft drizzle of spring, but a cold, relentless downpour — the kind that seeped into bones and whispered forgotten names.
In a narrow apartment in Shinjuku, Kaito Tanaka sat surrounded by ghosts.
Not spirits.
Not yokai.
*Photographs*.
Every print, every digital file, every forgotten frame of Aya Kurenai — spread across the floor, taped to walls, pinned to strings like a madman's constellation.
From their first meeting at the riverbank to the NHK performance, to the cursed Polaroid that had appeared from nowhere.
And now —
—the dream.
He had sketched it in charcoal:
The burning stage.
The cherry blossoms of ash.
Aya, mid-dance, her face caught between memory and oblivion.
And behind her —
— a woman in indigo, dancing with her.
He didn't know who she was.
But he *felt* her.
Like a hand on his shoulder in the dark.
He stepped back.
The entire wall pulsed with a single truth:
> **She was real.**
> **And she was disappearing.**
His laptop blinked — a notification from the post he'd made last night:
> *"Dream of the Burning Stage."*
> **Likes: 89,000**
> **Shares: 32,000**
> **Comments:**
> - *"This feels like a memory I never had."*
> - *"I saw her on a billboard yesterday. She looked* wrong*."*
> - *"There's a woman in red in my dreams too."*
> - *"They're taking her. Don't let them."*
Kaito exhaled.
It wasn't just him.
Others were *remembering*.
And that meant —
— the chain could be broken.
He opened a new folder on his desktop.
Not *"Aya"*.
Not *"The Ghost Dancer"*.
**"The Album of Ghosts"**
And he began to upload.
---
### 📸 The First Image: *Meiko Hanakage – 1887*
He had found it in a digitized archive of Meiji-era performers — a single surviving photograph of **Meiko Hanakage**, the legendary dancer who vanished after her final performance.
She stood in a traditional pose, fan half-open, eyes sharp, alive.
Not the blank-faced wraith from the Mirror Theater.
Not the forgotten.
*Her*.
Kaito zoomed in.
On the edge of the frame —
—a flicker.
Not a flaw in the photo.
A *reflection*.
In the mirror behind her —
— a man in black kimono.
Watching.
And on her collar —
—a thread of red silk.
Just beginning to *move*.
Kaito labeled it:
> **"Meiko – The First to Forget"**
> **"She danced for eternity.
> They gave her silence."**
He posted it.
Caption:
> *"This was real.
> She was real.
> And she was taken."*
Within minutes, the comments flooded in:
> *"I've seen her in old theaters. She dances alone."*
> *"My grandmother said she wept every time she saw a red kimono."*
> *"It's happening again."*
Kaito didn't stop.
---
### 📸 The Second Image: *Luna – 2009*
A grainy video still from a defunct pop idol's final concert.
**Luna Mizushima** — the "Eternal Smile" — known for her flawless performances, her radiant energy, her sudden disappearance after a record-breaking tour.
In the frame:
She's mid-dance, smiling for the crowd.
But her eyes —
—they're *empty*.
And behind her, in the stage lights —
—a shadow with a face.
Watching.
Kaito enhanced the image.
On her wrist —
—a red thread, woven into her bracelet.
Pulsing.
He labeled it:
> **"Luna – The Idol Who Forgot to Cry"**
> **"They sold her joy.
> And took her sorrow."**
Posted.
Caption:
> *"She didn't retire.
> She was* consumed*."*
The response was immediate.
Fans wept.
Former crew members came forward:
> *"She stopped recognizing us.
> Said her name didn't fit anymore."*
> *"She kept asking, 'Who was I before the lights?'"*
Kaito's hands didn't shake.
They *moved*.
Faster.
Deeper.
Because he wasn't just a photographer anymore.
He was an **archivist of the erased**.
---
### 📸 The Third Image: *Ren – 1703*
He found it in the Daisho Archive — a faded scroll, half-destroyed by time.
A sketch of **Rin Aoyama**, the First Crimson Dancer.
Young.
Beautiful.
Terrified.
He stood on a Noh stage, mid-dance, his body already beginning to *crumble* — not to ash, but to *mirror-dust*.
And from the shadows, a hand reached for him —
— his own hand, older, colder, wearing a black kimono.
The caption on the scroll:
> *"He made the deal to be eternal.
> But eternity was not life.
> It was* repetition*."*
Kaito stared.
Then realized the truth:
Ren wasn't just the tempter.
He was the **first victim**.
And now, he was the jailer.
Kaito uploaded it.
Labeled:
> **"Ren – The Forgotten King"**
> **"He didn't choose this.
> He became it."**
And in the caption:
> *"The monster was once a man who loved too much.
> And now, he's making us all forget."*
Silence.
Then —
—a new comment.
Anonymous.
No profile.
Just text:
> **"You cannot save her.
> She is already part of the weave.
> Close the album.
> Burn the photos.
> Or you will be next."**
Kaito read it.
Then smiled.
He replied:
> *"I'm not trying to save her from the red kimono.*
> *I'm trying to prove she was ever here.*
> *And as long as one person remembers,*
> *she wins."*
He hit *post*.
And opened a new folder.
Not for the dead.
For the **living**.
He uploaded a photo of Aya at the riverbank, laughing, sunlight in her hair.
Labeled:
> **"Aya Kurenai – The Girl Who Danced for Love"**
> **"She is not gone.
> She is* fighting*."**
And beneath it —
—he began to write.
Not captions.
A **manifesto**.
> *"Art is not perfection.
> Art is memory.
> It is the crack in the vase.
> The tear in the song.
> The love that survives the loss.*
>
> *They take names.
> They take faces.
> They take voices.
> But they cannot take what is* shared*.*
>
> *So remember.*
> *Photograph.
> Sing.
> Dance in the rain.*
>
> *Because every time you remember someone,*
> *you break the chain."*
Outside, the rain slowed.
And in the reflection of his window —
—for just a second —
—a woman in red smiled.
Not the reflection.
*Her*.
And she was *real*.