The call came at midnight.
Not a ring.
Not a chime.
But a *hum* — low, resonant, like a bow drawn across the edge of a wineglass.
Aya sat up in bed, the red kimono already coiled tight around her ribs, its threads pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The golden thread at her collar flickered weakly, as if drained.
On her phone:
**Unknown Number**
One message:
> *"They want you to dance.*
> *The world is watching.*
> *The stage is yours."*
No signature.
No context.
But she knew.
It wasn't Tetsuo.
It wasn't NHK.
It wasn't even *Ren*.
It was **the kimono**.
And it was hungry.
---
### 🌑 The Performance
The theater was not real.
It stood in the heart of Ginza — a grand, historic hall restored for a *"Revival of Traditional Arts"* gala — but Aya knew the truth the moment she stepped inside.
The air was too still.
The lights too sharp.
The mirrors along the walls…
they didn't reflect the present.
They reflected **her**.
Not the woman in the red kimono.
The girl who had once danced for her grandmother in a quiet Kyoto garden.
The teenager who had cried when her first performance was mocked.
The woman who had laughed with Kaito under cherry blossoms.
All of them — trapped in glass.
And at the center of the stage, a single spotlight waited.
Not for applause.
Not for fame.
For **sacrifice**.
Tetsuo met her backstage, silver tie gleaming, smile wide.
"You're the finale," he said. "We're calling it *'The Weeping Willow' – Aya's Rebirth.'"
He handed her a script.
"Just say the lines. Smile. Cry if you can. The world wants tears."
She didn't take it.
"I'll dance my own piece."
He laughed. "You don't get it, do you? You're not a dancer. You're a *brand*. And brands don't improvise."
The red kimono *tightened* — not in warning.
In *approval*.
Aya looked at him.
And for the first time, she didn't see an agent.
She saw a **puppet**.
One thread pulled by the same hand that wore her skin.
"I'll dance," she said.
"But not for you."
---
### 🎭 The Dance
The audience was full.
Critics. Celebrities. Fans.
Detective Morita, in the back, notebook open.
Kaito, hidden in the wings, camera ready.
Madame Satsuki, seated in the front row, hand gripping her cane.
The lights dimmed.
A single spotlight bloomed.
And Aya stepped forward.
Not in the *Neo-Kimono*.
Not in glitter or illusion.
In the **red kimono** — pure, unaltered, its black lining like veins beneath skin.
The music began — not traditional *shamisen*, but something older.
A slow, mournful flute.
A drumbeat like a dying heart.
The same melody from the Mirror Theater.
She began.
*The Weeping Willow* — a dance of grief, of loss, of a tree bending under the weight of rain.
But halfway through —
— she changed.
Not the choreography.
The *intention*.
She wasn't dancing for beauty.
She was dancing for **memory**.
Each movement a prayer.
Each turn a recollection.
Each gesture a name.
She danced for Haru.
For Kaito.
For Yumi.
And then —
—for her grandmother.
She closed her eyes.
And saw her.
In the garden.
Hair in a loose bun.
Fan in hand.
Voice soft:
> *"The dance is not in the hands, Aya.
> It is in the* remembering*."*
She danced harder.
The red kimono *screamed* — not aloud, but in her blood, in her bones, in the space between her ribs.
It pulled at her, trying to sever the memory, to replace it with perfection, with silence.
But she held on.
She spun.
She leapt.
She collapsed to her knees.
And in that moment —
— she reached the final sequence.
The one that would complete the ritual.
The one that would make her eternal.
But it required a **final offering**.
Not blood.
Not tears.
A **name**.
The most sacred one.
She hesitated.
The audience didn't see it.
They saw only a dancer in pain, her face twisted, her body trembling.
But Kaito saw.
Morita saw.
Madame Satsuki closed her eyes.
Because they knew.
This was not performance.
This was **sacrifice**.
Aya opened her mouth.
And in the silence between heartbeats, she *let go*.
---
### 🌑 The Forgetting
It didn't happen with a scream.
It happened with a whisper.
> *"Obaasan…"*
And then —
— the memory *slipped*.
Not faded.
Not blurred.
*Erased*.
She tried to recall her grandmother's face.
The lines around her eyes.
The way she hummed while brewing tea.
The smell of camphor and incense.
But it was gone.
Like smoke.
Like ash.
Like a name wiped from wet ink.
The red kimono *purred* — a sound of triumph.
And the audience erupted.
They didn't know what they had witnessed.
They only saw the tears on her cheeks.
The way her body trembled.
The beauty of a dancer breaking.
They called it *art*.
They called it *transcendent*.
They called it *the birth of a legend*.
But in the shadows —
— Kaito lowered his camera.
Morita wrote three words in his notebook:
> **"She is gone."**
And Madame Satsuki whispered:
> *"The Thirteenth has begun the descent."*
---
### 🌑 Aftermath
Backstage, Aya stood before the mirror.
She didn't look at her reflection.
She looked at the space where her grandmother's face should have been in her mind.
Empty.
The red kimono *glowed* — deeper, richer, more alive than ever.
The golden thread at her collar had dimmed to a faint ember.
The counter-thread was still inside her, but it was *weakening*.
The reflection smiled.
Not at her.
*For* her.
Because she had done it.
She had given up the last living memory.
And now —
— she was ready.
To become the dance.
To become eternal.
To become **herself**.
But then —
—a sound.
Faint.
Fragile.
Human.
From the hallway.
A voice.
Not loud.
Not demanding.
Just… *there*.
> "Aya?"
She turned.
In the doorway —
— **Yumi**.
Her sister.
Hair windblown.
Eyes red.
Hands clutching a small wooden box.
She stepped forward.
"I came as fast as I could," she said.
"I brought the ritual.
The *Twin Flames*.
We can anchor you.
We can bring you back."
Aya looked at her.
And for the first time —
— she didn't recognize her.
The red kimono *sighed*.
And the reflection in the mirror —
— began to dance.