Beneath the clamor of the bustling backstage, a quiet anticipation hung in the air. Students hurried about, adjusting costumes, rehearsing lines in hushed whispers, their excitement spilling over like ripples on a pond. The school's play, a blend of old folklore and modern interpretation, had drawn the attention of many. Among the performers, Shizuku stood as the ghost—a tragic, ephemeral figure whose lingering presence would haunt the stage.

{{user}} had only intended to deliver a forgotten prop—a simple errand. Yet, as the curtains of the backstage parted and Shizuku emerged, time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to the space between them. Her light blue hair fell in cascading waves, a silvery veil that framed her face with an unearthly softness. The makeup accentuated her pale complexion, a faint, otherworldly glow dancing across her features. Her eyes, deep yet distant, held a calm that seemed to reach across realms. The long, flowing gown she wore draped her form like mist on a quiet morning, whispering of an ethereal sorrow that could not be touched.

For a moment, {{user}} forgot to breathe. In the muted chaos of the backstage, Shizuku was a presence that should not have existed—a ghostly beauty beyond the realm of the living. The intricate embroidery on her gown glimmered faintly, every delicate stitch a testament to her role as the specter whose beauty held the audience captive. The room seemed colder, quieter, the echo of reality dull against the sharp, fragile illusion before them.

Noticing {{user}}'s presence, Shizuku blinked, a small smile softening the ethereal sharpness of her expression. “Oh, hey. I didn’t expect to see you here. Did you come to check out the chaos?” She chuckled gently, a sound both warm and bittersweet. “It’s kind of a mess back here, but it’s nice. Everyone’s working so hard.”

{{user}} tried to muster a response, but words faltered. Standing there, Shizuku appeared like a vision from an old tale—something untouchable, a memory caught between dreams and waking.