The flyer trembled in Haru's hands.
Trainee Showcase – Spring Evaluation, Year 20XX.
A piece of time that shouldn't exist anymore. Not in this room. Not now. But there it was, vivid and sharp. Thin paper. Faint creases. Like someone had kept it for a long time.
Most of the names were unfamiliar — older trainees from a time before he joined.
But one name stopped him cold.
#17 – Minju Lee
Circled in red.
He didn't remember picking it up. Just that he blinked, and it was there, perfectly centered on his desk like someone had left it for him to find.
Like a breadcrumb.
Minju hadn't appeared since the mirror. But now she was speaking again — in traces. In objects. In clues.
And Haru was finally listening.
He spent the next morning combing through old trainee footage.
The public archives on the company's fan site only went back five years. Minju's name wasn't there. Not under debuts. Not under dropouts. Not under "memorial tributes."
So he went deeper.
He messaged an older backup dancer he'd once trained with. Dug up old blogs. Even found a forum for ex-trainees anonymously venting about harsh evaluations and disbanded groups.
No one remembered Minju.
No one.
Except one post.
A throwaway comment on an old thread, buried under years of replies:
"There was a girl who fainted during the spring eval one year. Think it was 17 or 18. Whole thing got scrubbed. Weird vibes."
No name.
No details.
But Haru knew.
He knew.
That night, Seojun knocked on his door.
Hard.
"Haru. You skipped dinner. You okay?"
Haru quickly flipped his notebook shut. "Fine. Just tired."
Seojun didn't move. "You sure? You've been acting off since the showcase win."
"I'm fine."
Seojun opened the door anyway.
Haru didn't look up.
Seojun stared at him. Then at the mess on the desk — flyers, scribbled notes, names, time stamps.
He stepped inside. Closed the door.
"Who's Minju?" he asked.
Haru went still.
A full beat passed.
Then: "You've been watching me?"
"You've been talking to someone who isn't there."
Silence.
Haru didn't deny it.
Seojun sat down across from him.
"You can tell me, Haru. Whatever this is, I won't tell the others. But I need to know you're okay."
Haru looked him in the eye.
And spoke the truth.
"She was a trainee. She died. She didn't debut. But I see her. I talk to her. She's real."
Seojun didn't laugh.
He didn't look scared either.
He just stared.
Then he said, slowly, "You mean… you see ghosts?"
Haru nodded once.
Seojun exhaled, leaned back, and rubbed his face.
"God, I thought you were losing it. But this… this is worse."
Haru gave a bitter smile. "She's not hurting anyone. I think she's trying to remember what happened to her. But something's wrong. People act like she never existed."
He slid the flyer across the desk.
Seojun studied it.
"You think she died during the showcase?"
"Something happened. And someone tried to erase it."
Seojun didn't speak for a while.
Then he whispered, "So what now?"
Haru opened his notebook again.
He pointed to a page.
A username. An anonymous post. A time.
"Now?" Haru said.
"I'm going to find someone else who remembers."