Chihara Rinto had been certain that the role of "Miho" would go to Fukazawa Michiko. With her high spiritual compatibility, as long as she didn't freeze up in front of the camera, the part should have been effortless for her. However, reality defied his expectations—Michiko's performance was so abysmal it was almost painful to watch.
It seemed she hadn't even glanced at the simplified script provided. Her delivery was halting and awkward, her movements timid and stiff. She appeared too afraid or unsure to commit to the role. Chihara frowned deeply. While a witty person portraying a humorous character would naturally find it easier to embody the role, highlighting the intended traits set by the screenwriter, this ease depended on their ability to perform under pressure.
The issue wasn't just whether someone could be funny in real life—it was whether they could convincingly portray another funny individual on-screen. From the perspective of [Spiritual Compatibility Rate], Michiko seemed perfect for Miho, but…
Could humor translate through nerves? Was she simply too tense to act?
He fell into deep thought.
Murakami Iori and Fujii Arima were equally disappointed. Michiko performed worse than the earlier candidates who had already been deemed unsuitable. They cut her audition short decisively.
Michiko looked utterly crestfallen, her small face etched with disappointment. Yet, ever polite, she clasped her hands in front of her abdomen and bowed deeply. "Thank you, sensei, for your guidance. I'm sorry for troubling everyone."
"No problem. Please wait outside for our decision," Murakami Iori said gently, signaling for her to leave. Though disappointed, she remained composed and kind, unwilling to lash out at a child.
Michiko obediently turned to leave, but Chihara Rinto spoke up.
"Excuse me, please wait a moment."
Michiko froze briefly before turning back, offering a sweet smile. "Yes, sensei? Do you need something else?"
Murakami Iori also looked over, questioning, "What is it, Chihara-kun?"
After some reflection, Chihara suspected Michiko might simply be overwhelmed by nerves—a common issue for an eleven or twelve-year-old girl, possibly still in elementary school. He naturally wanted the highest possible quality for the production. In the original work, "Miho" was played by a child actor whose acting skills were adequate. However, that version of Tales of the Unusual enjoyed ample funding due to its popularity, unlike their current shoestring budget. Encountering someone who could potentially elevate the project, he didn't want to let her go without further exploration.
"How about letting her try again?" Chihara asked Murakami Iori, then addressed Michiko kindly. "Would you mind trying once more, Michiko? Don't worry, stay relaxed. Forget about 'acting'—just imagine you are Miho."
Michiko lowered her head momentarily, hiding her expression, then lifted her face with another sweet smile. "Yes, sensei. I'll do my best. Thank you for giving me another chance!"
Murakami Iori shrugged internally. She assumed Chihara was growing desperate after failing to find a suitable candidate—a common occurrence in casting. It wasn't unusual; they hadn't even reached open auditions yet, which would be far costlier and time-consuming. Still, wasting a little extra time mattered little. Mentally, she began calculating how much they'd need to hire a professional child star—saving money where possible remained paramount. Whose salary could they trim further?
Michiko took a deep breath and began her performance anew. She fumbled slightly with the prop sandbag, tossing it twice before freezing mid-action, seemingly forgetting the nursery rhyme she was supposed to sing.
Chihara softened his voice, reassuring her. "Don't worry if you forget your lines—humming the melody works too."
Forgetting lines could be resolved later. This choice, however, felt right—even based purely on appearance, Michiko was far purer and cuter than the Miho from the original.
Michiko nodded firmly. "Yes, I'll do my best!"
Despite her earnest promises, her performance remained disastrous. When tasked with conveying sadness, she stared blankly at the dummy lying on the floor, her expression oddly hostile rather than sorrowful.
Not only did she fail to exhibit the maturity required for the role, but she couldn't even convincingly portray a child—despite being one herself!
Chihara, unwilling to give up, encouraged multiple retakes. Michiko complied dutifully, working tirelessly despite making no progress. Even after a three-minute break to calm herself, her performance showed no improvement.
Murakami Iori watched with growing exasperation, leaning toward Chihara to whisper, "Let's hold another round of auditions later. For now, we can move on from this role."
Chihara wavered. Logically, even an ordinary child should improve somewhat after repeated coaching. Could Michiko's psychological resilience truly be this fragile? Did her anxiety worsen each time he urged her to relax?
Hadn't she done modeling and advertising before? How had those shoots been managed?
Such a shame—her Spiritual Compatibility Rate was so high, yet lacking formal training, she couldn't even present her natural self on camera.
Seeing no improvement, Chihara reluctantly prepared to abandon hope when a faint commotion arose outside. Murakami Iori immediately called out, "What's happening out there?"
A crew member poked his head in, apologizing. "Sorry, Murakami-san. This woman insisted on taking a peek inside. I'll make sure she leaves right away." Behind him stood a woman in her thirties.
The woman quickly bowed. "My apologies for the intrusion."
"And you are?" Murakami Iori asked, unfamiliar with the visitor.
The woman introduced herself promptly. "I'm Nambu Ryoko, Michiko's mother and manager. Seeing that she hadn't come out yet, I grew worried and wanted to check on her. I'm truly sorry for disturbing everyone."
"It's fine. No need to worry about it," Murakami replied understandingly. Given the extended audition time, a concerned mother peeking in wasn't unreasonable. Had this been a stricter producer, they might have made their displeasure known.
"If possible, may I stay here with Michiko? She's quite shy…" Nambu ventured cautiously, sensing Murakami's approachability. "I apologize for the imposition."
"Sure," Murakami agreed indifferently. Guardians observing auditions posed no issue, especially since Michiko was unlikely to secure the role.
Turning back to Michiko, she smiled encouragingly. "Go ahead and continue!" Completing this segment would honor Chihara's efforts, allowing the girl to return home afterward.
Michiko paused silently, head bowed. When she raised it again, her demeanor shifted dramatically. Her large, wet eyes shimmered innocently, tears glistening on her lashes. Resuming her scene, she softly called out, brimming with pure determination, "I believe in you because you're my grandmother!"
As she spoke, sunlight streaming through the window seemed to brighten, casting a gentle glow around her like a halo.
Fujii Arima, previously slouched with disinterest, suddenly straightened, captivated.
For a moment, Michiko radiated an ethereal purity, then lay down on the chair, feigning sleep. Moments later, a crew member delivered their lines: "Miho, wake up! We're going to miss the bus!"
Michiko stirred groggily, glancing first at her small arms and hands in surprise. Then, looking at the chair's surface as though it held a frail, dying body, her eyes filled with pity and reluctance. It was as if she truly heard a pitiful child crying, "It hurts, Grandma… it hurts so much…"
Gently, she whispered, "Miho, hold on. I promise I'll return by five tomorrow."
Rising and walking a few steps, her compassion faded, replaced by subtle disdain—as though facing a neglectful daughter-in-law eager for her demise.
If captured in a close-up, the rich microexpressions on her young face, combined with the depth conveyed by her dark, luminous eyes, would undoubtedly leave a profound impact.
---
The pen slipped from Murakami Iori's hand, clattering onto the table. She struggled to comprehend what had just transpired—the contrast was staggering. If scored purely on acting, Michiko's initial attempt merited a zero. Now, she deserved at least a 90.
Though not flawless, her performance surpassed television standards—it was cinematic quality. Emotionally resonant, layered, and captivating. More importantly, Michiko carried an unparalleled aura of purity, drawing all eyes to her like a spotlight.
The small conference room fell silent.