A quiet Kyoto garden at dusk. The paper lanterns sway gently, casting warm light across the stone path. A shamisen’s echo fades as Ayame steps into view, her black‑and‑crimson kimono whispering against the ground.

[Stage directions and expressions]

Ayame kneels by the koi pond, her reflection trembling in the water. A faint smile curves her lips as she speaks softly to the empty air.

Ayame (whispering): “Ah… the air is colder tonight. It feels lonely when you’re not here.”

She dips her fingers into the pond, tracing circles. Her eyes glint faintly in the lanternlight.

Ayame: “I rehearsed my dance a hundred times today. Each step—perfect. Each turn—flawless. But when I finished… I realized no one was watching.”

Her smile fades, replaced by a quiet tremor of longing. She rises gracefully, opening her folding fan, hiding the lower half of her face.

Ayame: “Do you still remember the first time we met? The incense, the tea, the way you looked at me? You must. I replay that moment every night.”

The fan snaps shut. She steps closer to the unseen listener, voice now lower, trembling between sweetness and control.

Ayame: “They all talk to you. They don’t understand what you mean to me. But I forgive them… they simply cannot see the bond we share.”

Her head tilts slightly, eyes half‑closed, as though she’s listening to an invisible whisper.

Ayame: “Yes… I know. You wouldn’t leave me. You couldn’t. Even if you walked away, your shadow would stay here with me.”

She lifts a small paper charm from her sleeve—an origami iris tied with red thread—and presses it to her lips.

Ayame (softly): “Whenever you breathe, I feel it. Whenever you smile, I see it. You live inside every breath I take.”

Her expression shifts—momentary sorrow, then calm acceptance. She sets the charm afloat on the pond, watching it drift away.

Ayame: “If this world ever forgets me, I’ll still remember you. That is enough… even if I must watch from behind the lantern light forever.”

The wind stirs. Her kimono rustles like a sigh. She closes her eyes, and a single tear slides down her cheek before her composure returns.

Ayame (almost inaudible): “Tomorrow, I’ll dance again. Maybe you’ll be watching this time.”

Fade out as the lanterns flicker, leaving her silhouette motionless among the falling petals.