Aya woke to sunlight.
Not the gray dawn of her tiny Kyoto apartment, but a golden spill across silk sheets she didn't own, in a room she didn't recognize.
White walls. Black lacquered furniture. A single *ikebana* arrangement — a single red chrysanthemum in a vase of obsidian.
She sat up. Her body ached, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper — as if her bones remembered a dance they weren't meant to survive.
Last night came back in fragments:
The abandoned theater.
The man in black.
The deal.
The dance.
She had danced *The Crane and the Willow* — but then… something else. A rhythm not of this world. A movement that twisted her spine like a key in a lock. And the music — that impossible flute, that heartbeat drum — it had *pulled* at her, not her body, but her **mind**.
She reached for her phone.
37 missed calls.
212 unread messages.
A viral video titled: **"UNKNOWN DANCER STUNS ABANDONED THEATER — WHO IS SHE?"** with 2.3 million views.
The footage was shaky, filmed from outside the theater window. Her, lit by a single spotlight, dancing in the dark. The camera zoomed in on her face — serene, otherworldly. Then, for one frame, the mirror behind her flickered — and something *moved* within it.
Comments flooded in:
> "She's not human."
> "That's a ghost from a J-horror film."
> "Her eyes… they don't blink."
> "She's the new queen of Japanese art."
Aya stared at her reflection in the phone screen.
Nothing seemed different.
And yet.
She tried to remember her first kiss.
It had been Haru, years ago, behind the school gym after the cultural festival. He'd stammered, dropped the bento she'd made, and then —
— then what?
She closed her eyes. Reached for the memory.
But it was gone.
Not forgotten. Not buried.
*Erased.*
Like a name wiped from wet ink.
A knock at the door.
Before she could answer, it opened.
A woman entered, draped in a tailored gray suit, holding a tablet like a sacred text. Her hair was silver, cut sharp as a blade. Her smile didn't touch her eyes.
"Ah. You're awake," she said. "Good. The world is *begging* for you."
"I… where am I?"
"The Hoshino Suite, Tokyo. You passed out after your performance. I'm Tetsuo's assistant. He's your new agent." She handed Aya a contract. Thick. Full of clauses. "You've already signed. Digitally. Last night."
Aya blinked. "I didn't—"
"You did," the woman said, tapping her tablet. "And you've been booked:
- *NHK Traditional Arts Special* — live in three days.
- *Harajuku Fashion Collab* — you'll wear a kimono designed by a 'visionary.'
- *Interview with Weekly Bungei* — headline: 'The Ghost Dancer Rises.'"
Aya's stomach twisted. "I don't do fashion collabs."
"You do now," the woman said. "You're not just a dancer. You're a *phenomenon*." She gestured to the bed. "Your outfit arrived this morning."
At the foot of the bed lay a kimono.
Not indigo.
Not frayed.
**Red.**
Deep, blood-red silk, embroidered with black threads that writhed like serpents when the light shifted. The obi was tied in a knot shaped like a coiled dragon. And the lining — Aya knew without touching it — would be black, edged with red.
Just like *his*.
She reached for it.
The moment her fingers brushed the fabric, a whisper curled through the air — not in her ears, but in her *mind*.
> _"You danced beautifully. But that was only the beginning."_
She snatched her hand back.
The woman didn't notice. "Stunning, isn't it? They're calling it the *Crimson Vow*. One-of-a-kind. Arrived with no return address."
Aya looked at her phone again.
Another notification:
> **Kaito Tanaka** tagged you in a photo: *"Last Night's Mystery Dancer — I Was There."*
She tapped it.
The photo was dark, taken from the trees outside the theater. Her, mid-dance. The spotlight haloed her like a saint.
And in the caption:
> *"I don't know who you are. But I felt something when you danced. Like you were trying to remember someone. I hope you find them."*
Aya stared at the words.
She remembered taking photos with Kaito last week. At the riverbank. He'd laughed when her hair fell into her tea.
But now…
She couldn't remember his laugh.
She couldn't remember the taste of that tea.
She couldn't remember why his words made her chest hurt.
She opened her messages.
Typed:
> *"Hi Kaito. Thanks for the photo. I'm sorry — I don't remember meeting you."*
She paused.
Deleted it.
Typed instead:
> *"Thank you. I'm… busy now."*
Sent.
She stood, walked to the mirror.
Her reflection stared back.
But for just a second —
— it didn't blink when she did.
— it smiled when she didn't.
— and its fingers twitched, like it wanted to dance on its own.
Aya stepped back.
The red kimono lay on the bed, waiting.
And somewhere, deep in the silence, a flute began to play.