Chapter 1: Butterfly Heaven

Snow drifted softly against the windows, piling thick and heavy on the sills of the little house in Hokkaido. The world beyond was swallowed by white flakes swirling like whispers in the wind, muffling all sound, softening every edge. Inside, the kitchen was warm, fragrant with the simmer of Sūpu karē bubbling on the stove. Her mother stirred the pot with careful hands, a gentle rhythm to her movements, the wooden spoon scraping against the edges with each turn.

The storm had cancelled school, a rare reprieve that she had spent outside with Inosuke, dad. Their laughter echoing through the frosted trees as they tumbled into the snowdrifts, limbs flailing, cheeks flushed with winter’s kiss. The thick jackets they wore—patterned with Ainu designs from the local market—were still dusted with snow when they burst back inside, shaking the cold from their gloves and scarves. There was a timelessness to those patterns, woven with symbols that spoke of mountains and rivers, of spirits whispered in the wind. Her mother had said they were beautiful, even if their family only carried whispers of Ainu blood from generations long past. It showed in her mother’s eyes—brilliant blue like frost under sunlight—a rare inheritance that Miku had been blessed with too.

Kimiko called them to the table, and Miku scrambled into the wooden chair, her feet barely brushing the floor as she leaned over the steaming bowl that was placed before her. The rich scent of curry and spices wrapped around her like a blanket, filling her lungs with warmth, making her mouth water with anticipation. Her fingers curled around the ceramic bowl, feeling its heat seep into her palms.

Her parents were deep in conversation about the impending move, their voices tinged with both excitement and trepidation. In just a few weeks, their lives would change entirely. Inosuke had been offered a prestigious position at the University of Tokyo, where his expertise in Ainu culture would be recognised on a grander stage. Despite not being Ainu himself, he had dedicated his career to the preservation of their heritage, becoming a foremost voice on Their language and traditions. The new role promised not just a better life, but a chance to amplify his work—to share the stories of a forgotten people with the world. For Miku, it meant Tokyo—a city brimming with possibilities, stretching far beyond the snowy landscapes of Hokkaido.

Outside, the storm howled against the glass, but it was distant—just another part of the landscape, as permanent and predictable as the snow itself. The stew glistened in front of her, bubbles rising to the surface, fat shimmering like tiny jewels caught in amber. She dipped her spoon into the broth, the steam rising up to greet her, and for a moment, there was only this: the warmth, the smell of her mother’s cooking, the soft murmur of conversation between sips.

Misaki's eyes fluttered open.

The caw of a distant gull pierced the silence, shattering the first peaceful dream she’d held in months. Its cry echoed off the walls, sharp and unyielding, dragging her back to consciousness with the blunt force of reality. She blinked, light from the setting sun filtering through the slatted blinds, casting lines of amber and gold across the room. For a heartbeat, she did not recognise her surroundings. Her mind lingered between dream and waking, clinging stubbornly to the scent of curry and the warm chill of snow-dampened mittens.

But the memory slipped through her fingers like sand, scattering into the wind. In its place, reality surged back—Saitō-san, the plan, the train, Kamiyama Cove. The house, concealed within a bamboo grove, its existence spoken of only in whispers—a secret etched into the landscape where even time seemed to move more slowly, as if hesitant to disturb its quiet solitude.

Misaki exhaled slowly, the remnants of her dream dissolving into the depths of her unconscious, forgotten as swiftly as they had surfaced. She sat up, the room settling around her with soft creaks, as if acknowledging her presence. She was here. She was alive. And for now, that would have to be enough.

The tatami mats beneath her bedroll crackled softly as she shifted into position. The air hung heavy with warmth—thick and humid, a stark contrast to the brisk chill that still clung to Tokyo when she left. Summer had yet to touch the city’s concrete sprawl, but here, farther south, it had already bloomed in full, clinging to her skin like damp silk. Her fingers found the edges of the Aya-T hoodie she had cocooned herself in during the long journey. Now it felt suffocating, the fabric plastered uncomfortably to her back. She peeled it off, the cool air rushing against her damp skin, a fleeting but welcome relief.

Next came the dress, its fabric heavy with humidity, clinging stubbornly to her thighs as she wriggled free. Her skin drank in the air greedily, every pore sighing with liberation. She tossed the crumpled garments aside, letting her bare skin breathe free at last.

Through the wooden slats of the window, the distant crash of waves reached her—steady and rhythmic, a lullaby of tides that whispered of peace. It was a grounding reminder she was far from the suffocating familiarity of her past life.

Her stomach groaned violently, sharp and insistent, twisting with discomfort. The sensation had grown familiar over the past few days—the way her gut churned and rebelled against the sudden influx of real food. For so long, she had survived on vitamin supplements and rationed meals, barely enough to keep her upright on stage. Her body had learned to starve gracefully, adjusting to the hollow ache and silence of emptiness. But now—now there was food. Real food. Saitō had made sure of it. Warm bowls of rice, soft-boiled eggs, protein bars, fresh vegetables from the ramen that crunched under her teeth. Her gut didn’t know what to make of it. The flora inside her had forgotten its purpose, stuttering and stumbling through the unfamiliar process of digestion.

The urgency struck her like a wave crashing against the shore—unforgiving and impossible to ignore. Misaki scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over the bedroll as her gut twisted again, more insistent this time. Her eyes darted around the room, half-expecting some miracle—a neat little sign that read “Toilet this way”. Naturally, no such miracle awaited her.

She took a cautious step forward, bracing herself as her stomach twisted again—sharper this time, unforgiving. A bead of sweat traced a slow path down her temple, and she swallowed hard, eyes scanning the unfamiliar room. Late afternoon light spilled through the blinds, casting slender bars of gold across the worn tatami beneath her feet. But there were no signs—no polite arrows pointing toward salvation. No notes. No hints.

"Okay… okay… think," she whispered, pressing her fingers against her abdomen as if that might calm the storm raging inside. She slid open the shōji door and stepped into the narrow upstairs hallway. Silence greeted her, dust motes swirling lazily in the sunlight that trickled through a small window. Her gaze landed on the stairwell in front of her, its wooden steps stretching downward like a descent into unknown territory. She rushed toward it, the wood creaking under her weight with each hurried step.

The house opened up before her in hushed whispers of wood and paper. The main room stretched out ahead, its length lined with sliding doors that filtered the fading light. She found herself in the living and dining area, where a low wooden table sat at the centre, surrounded by neatly arranged cushions. To her right, the paper door glowed with filtered light, streaks of sun casting dappled patterns on the tatami as the shadows of dragonflies danced over the little pond at the feet of the cherry tree in the garden. The shishi-odoshi thunk scattering them away before they stubbornly returned to the surface, the large tree, swayed outside.

"That goes to the engawa…" she murmured, bracing her stomach as it churned again. An outdoor corridor that wrapped around the perimeter of the house—beautiful, yes, but certainly no toilet.

To her left, another sliding door—this one leading further into the house rather than outside.

She moved towards it, sliding it open with a faint rasp of wood against its grooves. Just a storage space—freshly cleaned futons were stacked in a cavity built into the wall, concealed behind a small paper sliding panel similar to the shōji that lined the room. It had been left open, revealing the neatly folded bedding within, though its purpose was clearly to mask the recess from view during the day. The room was large enough, spare enough, that it could serve as another bedroom if needed.

In the centre, a cast-iron boiler squatted heavily on the floor, its firebox cold, the body still faintly sooty from the last time it was fed by hand with split lumber. A blackened chimney pipe rose from its back, disappearing through the ceiling and out the roof. Its water pipes threaded beneath the floorboards before emerging again at the walls, where radiators waited silently for the seasons to change.

To its left, bathed in the warm hues of evening light, a folded kotatsu< rested patiently in the corner—the low wooden table with its quilt still bundled beneath, hiding the heating element that, come winter, would once again draw legs beneath it and be quietly called to service.

All that thick bedding, the kotatsu<, the old boiler—they made her think that winter here must be especially cold, in sharp contrast to the unforgiving heat pressing now against her skin.

She barely gave the room a second glance before sliding the door shut—no salvation there, only another shōji that led to the engawa wrapping around the house.

She stepped back into the living room, scanning her surroundings with a hint of desperation. Behind her, to the left, stood the narrow stairwells she had just descended, and beside them, the door to the genkan, the vestibule where she had first entered earlier that day.

Her gut protested once more, twisting violently, threatening disaster with a force that nearly made her knees buckle. “Okay, okay, I get it! I’m working on it!” she scolded her own body, hands pressing firmly against her stomach as if she could physically hold back the rebellion happening inside. It growled back in response, sharp and obstinate, sending another ripple of discomfort through her.

She glanced down at her belly—still flat, but undeniably more alive now, awakened by the unfamiliar luxury of real food. It was demanding answers—demanding relief.

“I swear, you’re more demanding than Megumi-san,” she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. Her stomach churned in response, and she winced, forcing herself to take another steadying breath. But there was no time to linger; her gut wasn’t offering her the luxury of patience.

She cast another glance around the living room. To her right, two more doors stood waiting—silent mysteries yet to be solved. One was larger, directly across from the main entrance that led back to the genkan. Probably the kitchen, she guessed, and there was no point in checking there. Her eyes shifted to the smaller door just to the left.

"It has to be there," she whispered with a flicker of relief, her footsteps careful and measured as she approached it. This one was different—a more modern swing door, framed with a lock that caught the light. It seemed promising, almost too good to be true. She placed her hand on the cool handle, took a breath, and pulled it open.

The room beyond was simple yet elegant, lined with pink and white tiles, some adorned with delicate butterfly motifs and soft cherry blossoms. At the far end, a recessed ofuro laid empty—a tiled pool built into the floor, its wide brim clean and dry, the steps leading down into stillness. Above it, a dragon-shaped spout protruded from the wall, its jaws parted in silence, waiting to pour hot spring water through the pipes that ran from the distant hills.

She glanced at it—the dragon, long associated with rivers and rain, now motionless in the hush of the room.

Nearby, to an adjacent wall, two faucets hung above low wooden stools and lacquered buckets, perfectly arranged for rinsing oneself before the bath. A mirror perched above them, its surface polished and still. Twilight poured in, mellow and amber, through the window—painting everything in sepia hues and lending the space a zen-like tranquillity. It was perfect for mindfulness, a retreat for calm reflection—if only she weren’t on the verge of disaster.

She blinked in disbelief. "No… no, no, no…" she whispered, her voice tight with desperation. She shuffled in place, making tiny, frantic jumps, spinning in a small circle as if the waterclock might suddenly materialise if she just looked hard enough. Her hands twisted together, fingers tangling as if she could hold back the tide through sheer willpower. Her eyes swept the room once more, wide with panic, searching every corner.

It was clean, serene, even inviting in its simplicity. But no matter which way she turned, there was no porcelain throne in sight. Just a beautifully designed space for washing—peaceful, perfect, and utterly useless right now.

Her stomach growled again—a deep, primal sound that made her flinch. "Where is it?!" she half-shouted, her voice ricocheting off the tiled walls, breaking the fragile stillness of the washroom. Panic flared hotter, pushing her into action. She dashed back out into the living room, nearly stumbling over the wooden step as she slammed the door shut with more force than intended. The wood rattled in its frame, the sound reverberating through the house like a whisper of disapproval.

She slid open the larger door she had ignored earlier, and to her horror, she had been right. A gorgeous, traditional kitchen sprawled before her, immaculate and timeless. Against the far wall stood a kamado—a sunken, clay stove built directly into the floor, its blackened stone surface smooth from years of use. Iron grates rested atop its openings, where firewood would be fed to heat heavy iron pots. A black teapot sat proudly upon it, polished and waiting, while cast-iron pans hung neatly from hooks—each one seemingly holding stories of countless meals and seasoned with uncountable spices.

Near the kamado, a gas cooker stood out—a vintage model from the 1930s, with a sleek iron frame and four gas burners arranged symmetrically. Its enamel finish, black with brass fittings, gleamed under the soft light. Conveniently equipped with a gas oven and impeccably maintained despite its age. It was a far cry from modern stoves, but charming in its own way—a testament to craftsmanship meant to endure. A compact fridge hummed quietly in the corner; its surface dotted with tiny magnets shaped like flowers and butterflies. The sink gleamed with newer steel, a stark contrast to the wooden cabinets that framed the room, their surfaces etched with delicate carvings.

In the centre of it all, a quaint breakfast bar stood with two high chairs, polished to a shine. It looked inviting, like a place where mornings began slowly, with tea and sunlight with the aroma of the sea which could be seen from the window. It was beautiful—breathtaking, even. But painstakingly inadequate for the current emergency.

Her eyes swept to the back of the room, landing on yet another door that led, inevitably, to the cursed outer corridor.

By this point, her gut was on the verge of surrender. Panic seeping into her veins, she rushed back to the only room that remotely resembled a toilet, one hand clutching her abdomen as if holding herself together. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, her pace a stumbling run.

Desperation clawed at her, making her breath hitch as she frantically scanned the room once more. There had to be something—anything. A hidden door, a folding seat—some clue that she had missed. Was this Takeguchi Saitō’s cruel idea of a practical joke?!

In desperation, Misaki slid open the shōji door at the edge of the washroom—the one connecting to the engawa—just enough to peer outside. That’s when she saw it—the narrow path stretching beyond the raised platform of the corridor, down a little stair, stones lined up in perfect succession, guiding the way from the house and into the garden.

Her eyes followed the path as it twisted through tall grasses and wove around clusters of Hamanasu—wild beach flowers with vivid violet petals and a sweet, heady fragrance. Their thorny branches swayed gently in the sea breeze, petals fluttering like whispers across the earth.

The trail continued, snaking its way through the garden’s lush greenery before finally ending at a small outbuilding—an annex that stood separate from the main house, connected only by the winding stone path. Unassuming, but promising salvation.

Her eyes went wide. "You’ve got to be kidding me…"

For a heartbeat, she stood frozen, disbelief battling with urgency. Then instinct took over. She threw the shōji door open wide with a clatter, leaving it ajar behind her as she sprinted outside. The air hit her immediately, thick with the scent of salt and summer, clinging to her bare skin. Her underwear clung to her damp flesh that felt the refreshing wind, but modesty was a distant concern—she was too busy chasing salvation. She barely registered her lack of clothes as she ran, her bare feet slapped against the cool stones, heartbeat hammering in her ears. She pressed her hands to her stomach, as if her willpower might hold back the tide just a little longer.

The garden blurred around her, flashes of green and bursts of violet from the Hamanasu bushes flitting past as she hurried along the path. Each step landed with the urgency of desperation, propelling her closer to the small pavilion that waited at the far end like a beacon of salvation.

The annex stood proudly beneath the shade of the bamboo grove behind the house, its wooden panels freshly maintained and polished to a dark sheen. A small sign hung above the door; its calligraphy simple yet deliberate— 便所.

Misaki paused, her breath hitching as she stared at the antiquated word. The moment stretched painfully, her stomach twisting in protest of the hesitation.

"Facilities?" she murmured, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Then it clicked. "That’s... toilet! It has to be!"

She didn’t wait for another second of deliberation. Her hand shot out, pulling the door open with a force that rattled its frame. She stumbled inside, nearly tripping over the raised wooden threshold, her breath escaping from her lungs due to the rush.

Relief washed over her like a wave, so powerful she nearly sagged with gratitude. The interior was pristine—clean and well-ventilated, with a proper sink and a small mirror mounted on the wall. Sunlight trickled in through a tiny round window, casting soft light across the tiled floor.

She slammed the door shut behind her, the latch clicking into place with satisfying finality. A shaky laugh escaped her lips, half disbelief, half surrender. "Outside… it’s outside!” she murmured, shaking her head as if she still couldn’t quite believe it while she slid her underwear down, sitting at the porcelain. The absurdity of it almost made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Misaki sat there for a moment longer than necessary, the adrenaline fading from her limbs as she exhaled a long, shuddering breath of relief. Her hands braced against the white chair, the coolness of it grounding her back to reality.

The room was quiet now, save for the distant call of seagulls, the gentle whisper of the wind through the bamboo grove, and the steady chorus of cicadas rising and falling in the trees beyond. Together, they wove a soft summer symphony—meditative, grounding, ancient. She huffed out a laugh, almost disbelieving. "Of course it is outside… this house is old!" she whispered, shaking her head as if she might shake away the absurdity of it.

Catching her breath now, as the adrenaline ebbed from her limbs, she sighed. The toilet, despite the age of the house, had been surprisingly high-tech. Its smooth, white surface gleamed under the sunlight, and a small control panel was mounted discreetly to the side. With a soft whir, the bidet activated, a gentle stream of warm water washing her clean, followed by a soothing burst of warm air. Misaki blinked in surprise at the modern convenience, the stark contrast to the annex’s wooden frame almost surreal.

She reached for the small stack of paper nearby to finish the process properly. Then she stood up, stretching her legs with a relieved sigh, her muscles still tense from the hurried dash. She flushed, the familiar whoosh of water swirling away bringing a sense of finality.

Satisfied, she turned to the delicate sink, its porcelain basin pristine and inviting. She turned the tap, and a stream of cool water splashed against her hands—crisp and refreshing, a jolt back to normalcy.

Misaki let the water run over her fingers, washing away the remnants of her panic. She cupped her hands and brought the icy water to her face, splashing it over her cheeks. A gasp slipped from her lips as the chill bit into her skin, waking her up fully. She lingered there, palms pressed to her face, droplets tracing lazy paths down her chin before dripping into the sink. For a moment, she let herself breathe—just breathe.

The house had clearly been prepared for her arrival. It was obvious in every detail, and the more she noticed, the deeper her appreciation grew. Even the little outdoor toilet, tucked away in its pavilion of polished wood, had been equipped with thoughtful precision. An electric deodoriser hummed quietly in the corner, its scent of roses and lavender filling the air with a gentle sweetness that masked any trace of mustiness. The paper stack was brand new, pristine and neatly aligned. The soap dispenser was full, its contents lavender-scented and smooth, and there was even a small bottle of hand cream perched beside it—an unexpected luxury for a place so secluded.

She had stayed in hotels during her endless tours that weren’t as well-appointed as this hidden corner of Kamiyama Cove. The realisation made her chest tighten with an emotion she couldn’t quite name—something close to gratitude, but heavier, more tender. Someone had thought of these details. Someone had prepared this place, not just with utility in mind, but with care.

Her thoughts drifted back to the house—its elegance now coming into sharper focus. She replayed her frantic dash through its rooms. The warm glow of the kitchen, the delicate engravings on the wooden cabinets, the soft slatted light that filtered through the shōji doors. Even the ofuro had been beautiful, its tiles decorated with cherry blossoms and butterflies, the wooden buckets polished to a shine. It was stunning, really, despite its impracticalities.

A deep breath filled her lungs with the scent of flowers, her nerves finally settling as she reached for the handle to step back outside. But then—

Clank.

The sound of the metal gate creaking open sliced through the quietness. Her hand froze on the handle, breath catching in her throat. An instant later, the latch clicked shut—just as the shishi-odoshi released its load of spring water onto the pond with a resonant thunk. Footsteps followed—soft, deliberate—shuffling over the pebbles at the entrance, just a few yards away.

Misaki’s heart dropped into her stomach. Her gaze shot downward—bare feet, underwear, only a bra and panties clinging to her frame covering her dignity. She probably looked like she had just sprinted through a typhoon. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The realisation came crashing down like a wave.

Her hair.

Her eyes went wide, fingers instinctively reaching up to touch her damp, uncombed strands of long teal that reached below her knees. Her hair—bright, colourful and unmistakable. It framed her face like a beacon, catching light even in the shade of the pavilion. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a new kind of panic threading through her veins.

Her face. Her eyes.

She was still Hatsune Miku. Her reflection in the tiny mirror confirmed it—the same vivid colours, the same crystalline eyes that had been splashed across billboards and magazine covers. She had not adopted the appearance of Mori Misaki yet.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, her breath coming out in shallow bursts. It didn’t matter that she was half-naked in a house she had just stumbled into. It didn’t matter that she probably looked like she’d run a marathon. If someone saw her now—if someone recognised her here of all places—it was over.

Her cover. Her new life.

Everything.

Misaki held her breath, frozen in place, every muscle tense and coiled. The footsteps reached the engawa, the wood creaking softly beneath their weight—a gentle groan of protest that echoed through the garden's silence. Whoever it was moved with deliberate care, the measured pace of someone unhurried, perhaps even familiar with the place.

She strained to listen, heart pounding in her ears as the footsteps drew nearer to the main door. There was a pause—an eternity stretched out in a single heartbeat—then the soft rasp of the sliding door being opened. It was gentle, almost careful, as if not to disturb anything. The frame didn’t click; it didn’t reach the other end. It stopped just enough to allow a glance, perhaps a hand slipping through.

Her breath hitched. She squeezed her eyes shut, fingertips pressing into the edge of the sink as if it might ground her.

The door whispered closed again, smooth and quiet. The footsteps retraced their path, padding lightly back along the engawa. Wood creaked in soft protest beneath their weight, growing distant. Another pause.

Clank.

The gate. It clicked shut with a metallic finality. She heard them walk away, each step growing softer, fading down the gravel path until there was nothing but stillness.

The electric deodoriser in the corner let out a gentle puff of fragrance—roses and lavender, whispering into the stillness like nothing had happened. Outside, the sea murmured against the cliffs, its rhythm steady and eternal. Gulls called to one another above the tide, their cries sharp and distant. The wind rustled through the bamboo, soft whispers weaving through the stalks, bending them in gentle waves. In the garden, the cherry tree swayed beneath the sea breeze’s tender caress, its branches bowing with each sigh of the wind.

Misaki did not move. She could not. Her hands remained braced against the sink’s border, her breath shallow and controlled, eyes locked on the wooden slats of the door as if expecting it to slide open again. She stayed like that, motionless, listening to the distant wash of the sea and the flutter of leaves, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Time stretched, bending and folding back on itself, and still she stood there. She could not tell if it had been minutes or hours—only that the silence had returned, and with it, the heavy weight of solitude.

Misaki lingered in the silence, her breath shallow and cautious, ears straining for even the faintest whisper of movement. But there was nothing. Just the wind through the bamboo and the distant lull of waves. She swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as they left the edge of the sink.

She didn’t think—she just moved. Instinct took over, and she gathered what little courage she had left, pushing herself upright and bolting for the door. The wooden frame slammed open and closed at light speed, and she burst outside, bare feet skimming over the smooth stones that led back to the house.

The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the world in layers of colour—ultramarine stretching across the sky, deep and endless. Streaks of pink brushed the edge of the firmament, delicate and soft, while the sea reflected the last threads of gold from the retreating sun. Venus hung above it all, a lone guardian flickering against the encroaching night, bold and unwavering.

She reached the engawa in record time, breathless and flushed, her heart hammering in her chest. The shōji door she had left open still stood ajar, the faint breeze going into the house through it, swaying the bath’s door. Misaki stepped onto the wooden planks, sliding the door shut behind her with a quick, careful motion, as if sealing away whatever lingering presence had haunted those footsteps.

She let her weight fall back against the door, her legs folding beneath her until she slid down to the floor. Her back met the wooden frame, cool and sturdy, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Relief unfurled in her chest, uncoiling the tension thread by thread, leaving her slumped and breathless on the polished wood.

So much stillness...

It was as if the world had paused—frozen in that moment of her return, the echoes of the mysterious footsteps now just a memory. Outside, the wind rustled softly through the trees, the droning of cicadas—semi, the voice of summer—rose and fell like a low, rhythmic chant. The sea murmured in the distance, its steady rhythm a gentle reminder that life still moved on, even in this strange corner of the world.

When she finally regained her breath, Misaki pushed herself upright, her legs still trembling slightly as she made her way back into the living room. The light had deepened outside, the last remnants of gold slipping beneath the horizon.

Her suitcase lay neatly by the sliding door that led to the genkan, alongside her handbag. She knelt beside it, the tatami warm beneath her knees where the sunlight touched it, and cool where the shadows still lingered. Outside, the steady buzz of dragonflies shimmered in the fading light, their wings flickering just beyond the paper screens. She flicked open the clasps and began to rummage through the contents. As she searched, the first spots of green appeared beyond the engawa—fireflies, sudden and soft, rising like breath as the evening fell. Her fingers closed around the sharp pair of scissors she had packed for this very purpose.

Her hands hesitated for just a moment as she held them, the metal cool and unyielding against her palms. Then she reached into the shopping bag, fishing out the box of hazelnut brown dye she had purchased earlier that morning. She cradled it in her hands for a breath, the weight of it heavier than it should have been. But there was no room for second thoughts. Not anymore.

Then, she rose to her feet, the dye and scissors held tightly in her hands as she strode back towards the ofuro. Her pace was deliberate, steadfast. She pulled the door open with a soft whisper of air, stepping back into the serene stillness of the washroom. The air smelled faintly of cedar and cherry blossoms and sea salt, a peaceful scent that contradicted the knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach.

She sat down on one of the low stools before the nozzles, setting the scissors and dye beside her. Her eyes drifted to the mirror, and she froze. Her reflection stared back—teal twintails cascading over her shoulders, bright and unmistakable. For a moment, she just looked.

Memorising it.

This was it. The last time she would see Hatsune Miku. No, the last time Hatsune Miku would exist in this world.

Her fingers found the long strands of her hair, tugging them forward until they rested against her chest, pooling like ribbons of turquoise silk. She took a deep breath, bracing herself, then lifted the scissors to the first tail. The blade caught the light for just a second before she pressed it shut.

Snip.

The first tail fell to the floor, chopped just below her chin, coiling on the cool tiles like a discarded promise. Misaki’s breath hitched, her fingers trembling as she moved to the other side. Another deep breath, and—

Snap.

The second one joined its twin, laying side by side like ghosts of her past life. Her hands shook, just a little, and she nearly choked on the wave of emotion that threatened to rise. So many years… years of growth, of upkeep, of stylists treating it like it was sacred. But there was no time for sentimentalism now.

She picked up the scissors again, forcing her hands steady. Her reflection looked back, hair uneven and choppy where she had cut the tails, but it didn’t matter. She began shaping it, evening the edges, trimming the length to just below her shoulders. The scissors clicked rhythmically, a steady snip, snap, snip that filled the room with a hypnotic cadence.

Working methodically, remembering the way her stylists, the best money could pay in the whole of Japan would move, the precision of their hands, the way they would tug and shape and level each strand. She had paid attention. She had watched. And it showed. When she was done, her hair sat just at shoulder height, even and smooth. She shaped her bangs next, cutting them straight and blunt, just below her brows, just short of her nose bridge. It was plain, almost boring—perfect.

She stared at herself for a moment in the mirror, catching her breath. Her hair, cropped and level, was still vibrant teal—jarring against her pale skin. It was time.

Misaki stripped off her underwear, folding it neatly beside the counter on the other end of the bath. The fabric was soft against her fingertips, familiar in its texture, but she set it aside with deliberate care, smoothing out the edges before turning back to the faucets. She knelt gracefully on the small wooden stool, the cool tiles pressing against her knees, and reached for what remained of her twintails—the long, silken strands now severed from her scalp.

They lay in her hands like fragile remnants of another world, ribbons of turquoise that had once been her signature, her armour, her cage. She gathered them with surprising gentleness, folding them carefully, one loop over the other, until they were bundled neatly like a cherished keepsake.

It almost felt like folding a costume—an elaborate façade that she had worn for so long, it had begun to feel like a second skin. But now, here in this hidden corner of Kamiyama Cove, it was nothing more than fabric and threads. Something to be set aside.

Misaki placed the folded twintails on the edge of the counter, away from the water’s reach, her fingers lingering there for just a moment. She was no longer Hatsune Miku. That costume was packed away, protected but distant.

Her eyes drifted back to the mirror, her reflection startling her for a heartbeat. Her hair, though cropped and neatly styled, still held echoes of what she had been. It framed her face with an almost surreal precision—straight, shoulder-length, perfectly even. It was mundane, ordinary... almost painfully so.

It still, however, screamed Hatsune Miku with that bright blue shade. But soon... soon it would change.

She settled back onto the wooden stool, knees pressing against the cool tiles, her fingers reaching out to turn the faucet handles. Warm water rushed out with a steady hiss, steam curling upwards and fogging the edges of the mirror. Misaki cupped her hands beneath the stream, the heat prickling her palms before she splashed it over her face, the sensation jarring and comforting all at once.

With a deep breath, she dipped her head forward, letting the water spill over her scalp, flowing smoothly through the freshly cut strands. Tiny fragments of hair still clung to her shoulders, a faint dusting against her skin. The water swept them away in gentle rivulets, tracing paths down her back and arms, pooling around her feet before swirling towards the drain.

For a moment, she watched the whirlpool form, the trimmed strands of teal hair caught in its spiral, twisting tighter and tighter before vanishing into the depths of the metal grate. It was almost hypnotic—the way it disappeared without a trace, washed into the void, erased from the world with nothing but a whisper.

Her hands moved with care, smoothing the water through her hair, darkening it to a deeper shade of blue as it soaked. It clung to her shoulders, heavier now with moisture, the ends blunt and even where she had made the final cut. She felt lighter—stripped of the weight she had carried, even if it had only been in the form of strands.

Yet, the sensation was alien, unsettling. Her head felt painfully unfamiliar, almost weightless in a way that made her instinctively reach back, fingers searching for the ghost of her twintails. Her hands grasped at the air, expecting the silken length to pool in her palms, but instead, they found nothing. Just the blunt edges where the strands ended far too soon.

Her breath caught for a moment, a flicker of panic threading through her chest. It was real. It had happened. There was no going back now.

Her hands dropped back to her lap, fingers trembling slightly as the water dripped from her ends, pooling into tiny droplets that pattered softly onto the tiles. She stared at them—those perfect little circles of water, rippling as more drops joined them, and watched as they spiralled towards the drain.

The old her, slipping away with each drop.

Misaki leaned back, droplets of water tracing slow, meandering paths down her neck and shoulders. She closed her eyes for a moment, the soft hiss of the faucet and the whisper of water spiralling away soothing her nerves. The teal strands darkened, water pooling at her feet as she washed away the remnants of the sprint and the sweat. For one last time, she caressed the colour that had defined her—the turquoise shade that was both icon and cage.

Then she reached for the bleach.

The kit came with everything she needed, including two sets of plastic gloves. She slipped on the first pair, the material crinkling as it stretched over her fingers. She mixed the solution carefully, the sharp chemical scent biting at her nose, harsh and almost metallic. With steady hands, she smoothed it over each strand, section by section, working the bleach in with delicate precision. Her movements were practiced, deliberate, ensuring that every bit of teal was thoroughly coated and saturated.

She glanced at the instructions on the box—thirty minutes—and sighed. It would have been easier with her smartphone. Saitō had taken care of it, though he hadn’t said how. Just a nod and the promise that it would be handled. Now, she was left with the flip phone she had picked that morning as she arrived, with its comically large, almost cartoonish buttons, and the screen was barely big enough to display four lines of monochrome text. Waterproof? Not a chance. She wouldn’t risk it near the faucets.

Misaki set the box aside after applying bleach to her eyebrows as well, draping a white towel that smelled of fresh lavender over her shoulders to catch the inevitable drips, and peered out the window. The sun hung low, casting its final blush over the horizon, streaks of gold and pink spilling across the sea like brushstrokes. It was beautiful. Breathtaking, even.

She let her eyes linger there, committing the colours to memory. It would be her clock. She would wait until that horizon, painted in gold and rose, sank into the deeper blues of dusk. A natural timer—slower, less precise, but somehow fitting for the ritual she was performing. She leaned back against the wooden stool, arms crossed, eyes never leaving that sliver of light. It slipped away slowly, almost hesitantly, as if mourning the day’s end.

When the pink and gold had finally dissolved into deep ultramarine, she knew. It was time.

The tingle of chemicals worked its way through her hair. The sensation was oddly therapeutic, almost ritualistic. She rinsed it out with the faucet, watching as the teal foam swirled away, leaving only pale blonde in its wake. Her hair looked almost silver, washed out and ethereal. She touched it gently, the texture different, lighter. It was still eye-catching, too striking to be invisible.

She opened the sachet of hazelnut brown dye, her hands moving with efficiency. The second pair of gloves slipped over her fingers, snug and crinkling with each flex of her hands. She squeezed the bag, divided in the middle, dye and activator on each slot. The thick solution pooling into the mixing bowl provided in the box before she stirred it carefully with her index finger, watching it darken to a deep, rich brown. With deliberate care, she lathered it through her hair and eyebrows, smoothing it out strand by strand, her fingertips gliding with precision. Not a single section was left untouched, her hands working methodically until every trace of blonde was buried beneath the earthy hue.

The instructions had called for another twenty minutes, but this time, a different type of timer was needed. She turned her gaze out the window, the horizon now swallowed by deep indigo, punctuated only by the flicker of stars that had begun to pierce the evening canvas. The waves crashed against the shore in rhythmic intervals, a steady pulse that she could almost feel in her bones.

Ten seconds each, she estimated. Two hundred waves.

Misaki leaned back, her shoulders relaxing as she settled onto the wooden stool. Her eyes drifted shut, the darkness behind her eyelids a canvas upon which her thoughts scattered and faded. She counted each wave as it broke against the distant rocks, the sound muffled but unyielding. One after another, the rhythm soothing her heartbeat, steadying her breath.

The world outside was still. The sea continued its whispering rhythm, the bamboo leaves rustled softly in the wind, and the scent of flowers from the garden wafted through the open window. For a moment, it felt almost meditative, a rare stretch of peace amidst the chaos that had been her life.

When she had counted enough waves, she rose gracefully, slipping off the gloves and discarding them aside. Her fingers turned the faucets, warm water spilling forth, and she leaned forward, letting the stream cascade through her hair. The water ran dark and murky at first, swirling around her ankles like shadows, twisting and turning before disappearing down the drain. She watched it spiral away, carrying with it the last remnants of teal and blonde, until the water finally ran clear.

When she looked up at the mirror, her breath caught in her throat.

A stranger stared back.

Her hair was deep brown, ordinary and unremarkable. Her bangs framed her face like a girl-next-door. The bright blue was gone—washed away into the drains of the ofuro.

Her hand lifted almost instinctively, touching the glass as if to confirm it was real. She felt her heartbeat slow, heavy and deliberate.

Hatsune Miku was gone.

And Mori Misaki stared back from the other side of the mirror.