The stars weren't speaking tonight.
Ayame stood beneath the bleachers after rehearsal, her script clutched in one hand, her pendant in the other. Above her, the auditorium buzzed with activity—lines shouted, footsteps echoing, laughter spilling between set changes. But here in the quiet, something tugged at her.
She turned the pendant over. The surface shimmered faintly, then dimmed.
Kael appeared beside her, holding a box of stage props.
"We're down two lanterns and one suspiciously melted plastic sword," he said. "Also, Ryuu almost kissed the soundboard again."
Ayame smiled thinly. "Is it weird that chaos is starting to feel normal?"
Kael set the box down and leaned against the wall. "When the world is unpredictable, chaos is strangely comforting."
Ayame tilted her head. "You sound like the Composer."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's either an insult or a very poetic compliment."
She looked away. "I don't know anymore. Everything feels... stretched. Like the world's fabric is thinning."
Kael pulled something from his pocket—a string of blue thread, no longer than his palm. "I found this tied to the back of the stage curtain. Looks like the same thread the echo memory used."
Ayame touched it. Cold.
Not just from the air. From something *older*.
She swallowed. "Kael… what if we're wrong about where the threat is coming from?"
He tensed. "What do you mean?"
She turned toward him. "What if it's not just someone *stealing* memories. What if someone is *weaving* false ones into the gaps?"
His eyes widened.
"Like a replacement melody," he whispered.
Ayame nodded. "And people are starting to hum it."
Just then, a strange ripple pulsed through her pendant. It vibrated once — sharply — then stilled.
Kael noticed. "Did that happen before?"
"No," Ayame said slowly. "It's never reacted like this on its own."
She held it up.
This time, the shimmer glowed a steady violet. Unfamiliar. Not from the glade. Not from the Composer.
Kael took a step back. "That's not memory light."
Ayame's heart beat faster. "No. That's a *thread.*"
The pendant dimmed, then re-ignited, casting its glow across the concrete. Symbols flickered on the floor — a brief pattern of runes neither of them recognized. A heartbeat later, they were gone.
Kael broke the silence. "So that's happening now."
"Apparently."
He exhaled. "Do we tell the others?"
"Not yet," Ayame said. "We need to trace it first. Follow the thread."
—
The school's old archives were technically off-limits after 7 p.m.
Which meant Ayame and Kael waited until 7:01.
They crept down the side hall near the library, past the rusted lockers and forgotten plaques. The archive door groaned open with a sound like a sigh.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and secrets. Rows of stacked boxes, file cabinets, and shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten years.
Kael pulled out his phone for light. "What are we looking for?"
Ayame's pendant pulsed again. Just once.
She stepped toward the leftmost shelf.
"Old performance records," she murmured, scanning the dates. "Costume logs. Set designs…"
She stopped.
One folder, dusty and unlabelled, had the same faint rune burned into its edge as the one they'd seen earlier.
Kael saw it too. "That's not coincidence."
Ayame opened it.
Inside: a program booklet from 1997, yellowed with age. It read: *The Weaver's Waltz: A Shadowed Memory.*
Kael read it aloud. "That sounds… ominously on theme."
Ayame flipped through the brittle pages. The play's plot? A town cursed by forgetting. A girl who remembered too much. And a shadow that fed on stories.
They both froze at the name of the playwright.
*Uncredited.*
Kael turned to the back.
A photo had been hastily taped there — a grainy black-and-white image of the stage's final scene.
In it, a girl stood center stage holding a glowing pendant and a staff made of glass strings.
Ayame's blood ran cold.
"She looks just like you," Kael whispered.
Ayame nodded. "Except I've never seen that staff before."
Kael pointed. "That's the same symbol. On the curtain behind her."
Ayame suddenly felt the thread in Kael's pocket buzz. She reached for it and the moment her fingers brushed it—
**The archive changed.**
Not physically.
But something unseen shifted.
The light dimmed, not from lack of power, but from something *pressing* on the world.
Kael straightened. "Did you feel that?"
Ayame nodded, staring ahead.
A figure stood at the far end of the room. Barely visible. Wrapped in dark red cloth. No face. No sound.
But it *watched.*
Kael stepped in front of her, shielding her instinctively.
The figure raised a hand.
And vanished.
Just… gone.
Ayame gasped. "It was *there.* I swear it was—"
Kael shook his head. "I saw it too."
They stood in stunned silence.
Then Ayame's pendant flared.
Not in fear.
In **recognition.**
"What if," Ayame said slowly, "this was all a loop?"
Kael turned. "You think this has happened before?"
"Maybe not exactly. But *something* like it. Maybe that girl in the play wasn't just acting. Maybe she was the first one who faced this. Maybe the play was her memory."
Kael rubbed his jaw. "And if we're starting to *remember* it now…"
Ayame placed the booklet carefully back into the folder. "We need to find that staff."
Kael looked at her. "And figure out who's stitching the false melody."
Ayame whispered, "The Weaver."
—
Later that night, back at home, Ayame stood in front of her mirror.
She held the thread between two fingers. It trembled like it had its own heartbeat.
Her pendant, resting on her collarbone, flickered with a pulsing hum.
And then—without her touching it—the mirror shifted.
Just a fraction.
Not like a funhouse illusion. Like something moved *behind* it.
She stepped closer.
For a moment, her reflection didn't move in sync.
It stood still.
Then smiled.
Ayame stumbled back, breath caught.
The mirror returned to normal. Her reflection mimicked her again. But that smile — it had been *wrong.*
Kael's voice came from her open window. "You okay?"
She turned. "Yeah."
But her voice was tight.
He climbed in. "I figured you'd want backup for any creepy mirror hauntings."
She didn't ask how he knew.
Kael had a sixth sense for that sort of thing now.
He stepped closer, eyes on the mirror. "It's not just a reflection, is it?"
Ayame shook her head. "It smiled first."
Kael didn't laugh. "So… a sentient mirror. That's new."
Ayame touched the surface. It felt colder than glass. Not metallic — but *memory-charged.*
"I think it's a window," she said.
"To where?"
Ayame met his eyes. "To the place where false memories are born."
Kael exhaled. "We're going to need the others. Mio. Haru. Yuzu. Everyone."
Ayame nodded. "And soon."
She glanced back at the mirror.
Because behind her reflection, just for a flicker of a second—
The girl from the 1997 photo stood watching.
---