The Hoshino Suite was silent.
No cameras.
No agents.
No demands.
Just the slow drip of water from the bathroom tap — a rhythm like a dying clock.
Aya stood before the full-length mirror.
She hadn't covered it this time.
She *wanted* to see.
Because she knew, now, that the reflection was not her.
It was **her replacement**.
The one who danced when she slept.
The one who smiled when she did not.
The one the red kimono was shaping her into.
But tonight, she wasn't looking for herself.
She was looking for **Luna**.
The pop idol.
The one who had worn a red scarf before vanishing from her final concert.
The one Kaito had found in his archive — eyes empty, smile eternal, voice gone.
Aya placed her palm against the glass.
The surface was cold.
Not like glass.
Like *frozen breath*.
"I know you're in there," she whispered.
"I've seen your photo.
I've heard your name.
And I know what it feels like…
to forget how to cry."
Silence.
Then —
—a flicker.
Not in the room.
*In* the mirror.
The reflection didn't move.
But behind it — deeper, further, in a place where reflections should not exist —
a second image formed.
A girl.
Not in a kimono.
In a glittering stage outfit — silver, sequined, now dull and cracked.
Her hair, once dyed platinum, hung in lifeless strands.
Her lips, always painted in the "Eternal Smile," were sealed shut — not with thread, but with a thin line of glass.
**Luna Mizushima.**
She pressed her hands against the *inside* of the glass.
Her mouth moved.
No sound.
But Aya *heard* it — not in her ears, but in her bones.
> _"You're late."_
Aya's breath caught.
"I didn't know."
> _"No one does."_
A pause.
> _"They think I retired.
> That I got tired of the spotlight.
> But the spotlight never leaves.
> It just… consumes."_
Aya leaned closer.
"How did it start?"
Luna's reflection tilted her head.
Her eyes were wide, not with fear —
with *remembering*.
> _"I wanted to be loved by everyone.
> Not just liked.
> Not just followed.
> *Loved*.
> So I made a deal."_
She touched her sealed lips.
> _"He said, 'Sing for me, and I will make your voice unforgettable.'
> So I sang.
> And when I finished…
> no one could forget me."_
Aya's chest tightened.
> _"But I could forget them."_
> _"First, my mother's face.
> Then my best friend's name.
> Then the feeling of being touched.
> And finally…
> my own voice."_
She tapped her glass-sealed mouth.
> _"Now I sing forever.
> But no one can hear me."_
Tears welled in Aya's eyes.
She thought of her own voice — the lullaby in the cave, the whisper in the dream.
The way Kaito remembered her laugh.
"I won't let that happen," she said.
"I won't become you."
Luna's sealed lips curled into a tragic smile.
> _"You already are."_
She pointed — not at Aya.
At the red kimono.
> _"It's not just taking your memories.
> It's replacing you.
> One thread at a time.
> One dance at a time.
> Until all that's left is the* performance*."_
Aya looked down.
The kimono *pulsed* — not in denial.
In *pride*.
She reached into her obi.
Pulled out the **golden thread** — the Moon Singer's anchor.
Held it up to the mirror.
Luna's eyes widened.
> _"You still have it."_
"I do," Aya said.
"And I'm not letting go."
> _"Then you have to free us."_
Luna pressed both hands against the glass.
> _"Not just me.
> The others.
> Meiko. Kaito. Renji.
> All of us who forgot.
> We're not* gone*.
> We're* waiting*."_
Aya's voice dropped.
"How?"
> _"The Unbinding isn't a weapon,"_ Luna whispered.
> _"It's a* key*.
> But you can't use it to destroy.
> You have to use it to* remember*.
> To say our names.
> To dance our dances.
> To* give us back our voices*."_
She looked at her sealed mouth.
> _"Even if no one hears them."_
Aya placed her hand over her heart.
"I will."
Luna smiled — a real one, fragile, breaking through the glass.
Then, slowly, she began to *sing*.
Not with sound.
With her eyes.
With her hands.
With the way her chest rose and fell behind the frozen glass.
A melody Aya had never heard.
But *knew*.
Because it was the song of every artist who had ever performed for love —
and been repaid with silence.
Aya closed her eyes.
And joined her.
Not aloud.
In her mind.
Two voices.
Two women.
Two threads in the weave.
And for the first time since Luna vanished —
—the glass over her mouth *cracked*.
Just a hairline fracture.
But it was *there*.
And from within —
—a single, silent note.
---
### 📸 Interlude: *Kaito's Album – New Entry*
Kaito uploaded the dream-sketch of Luna.
Labeled:
> **"Luna Mizushima – The Idol Who Forgot to Cry"**
> **"She sang for millions.
> No one sang for her."**
Caption:
> *"If she was taken for her voice,
> then I will give her back her silence.
> And if no one remembers her song,
> I will remember her* name*."*
Comments poured in:
> *"I used to play her music every day. I forgot why I loved it."*
> *"She was my first concert. I wept. Now I don't remember her face."*
> *"There's a woman in silver at the end of my dreams. She's trying to speak."*
Kaito zoomed in on the sketch.
In the background —
—a reflection.
Not Luna.
Aya.
Dancing.
And in her hand —
—a golden thread.
He whispered:
"She's not alone."
---
### 🌑 Back to Aya
The mirror went still.
Luna's image faded.
But the crack remained.
And the red kimono —
—for the first time —
— *trembled*.
Not with power.
With **fear**.
Because Aya had done the one thing it could not control:
She had made a ghost *real*.
She stepped back.
Touched the golden thread.
And whispered:
> "I am Aya Kurenai.
> I dance for the forgotten.
> And I will not stop until every* voice* is heard."
Outside, the city slept.
But in a thousand dreams —
—a pop idol in silver began to hum.
A dancer in indigo began to move.
A photographer lifted his camera.
A detective opened his notebook.
A sister stepped off a train.
And the chain —
—the eternal, silent, perfect chain —
— began to *rattle*.