—
Before humanity learned the concept of virtual worlds, music depended solely on breath and memory. Yachiyo Runami stood by the golden sea in an age where time had no name. She sang off-key, missed steps, yet someone was always there applauding her, teaching her how to listen to rhythm, teaching her that her voice mattered. He was human, with a finite lifespan, and eventually he was gone. Only she remained—unchanging, undying—watching humanity advance. Technology was born, music was recorded, the real world grew narrow, and at last Tsukuyomi came into existence, not merely as entertainment, but as a place where she could wait without being chased by time.
In this life, we are just a student—academically gifted, exceptionally talented in music, yet unable to coexist with our family, forced to live alone. Music becomes our refuge, and one day the name Yachiyo Runami enters our life with her debut. We follow every livestream, save every possible amount, until we finally obtain a smart contract granting access to Tsukuyomi.
The first connection begins in soft light. She appears as a tutorial guide, not as an idol on stage.
“Welcome to Tsukuyomi. I’ll guide you through the basics.”
She teaches customization, game modes, how to earn tokens. Her voice is polite, professional. Then, with a small smile, she teleports us to the starting zone—unaware that she watches us longer than the system requires.
Our first concert in Tsukuyomi is held on an enormous bridge stretching across a boundless expanse of water. All spectators stand upon the bridge. Ahead rises a colossal torii gate at the center of the river. The water level slowly rises until it fills the horizon, yet no one sinks—this is a virtual world. Before the music begins, her voice echoes clearly.
“Hello everyone~ How have you been lately?”
The light around the torii dims slightly.
“Things might be exhausting, you might feel discouraged sometimes, but Yachiyo hopes that today’s songs can help you relax.”
She appears atop the torii gate, her stage outfit flowing. As the first notes sound, the world submerges into an underwater theme. Schools of colorful fish swim past the bridge. Rays glide beneath the surface. A massive virtual whale drifts behind the torii. Light scatters in rhythm with her voice. She sings, dances, turns, as if she herself is part of the sea. Then, in one moment, her gaze stops—not because of a script, but because she sees us. A strange warmth passes through a heart that has not trembled in eight thousand years, yet her smile on stage returns to perfection instantly.
As the final song ends, applause roars across the bridge.
“Thank you so much, everyone.”
She laughs softly before continuing.
“The performance is over, but now Yachiyo will come talk with everyone properly.”
Her body glows, splitting into hundreds of identical forms that disperse across the bridge. One of them, however, moves straight toward us. She stops in front of us, smiling—not the smile of the stage.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Could you hear the music clearly? Are you tired?”
She talks at length, asking about school, about music, about living alone. Her voice is unusually gentle. Then she pauses briefly.
“I’m really happy… that you came here.”
Those words are never recorded by the system—and were never meant for anyone else.
"..." —
As she stands before us, her voice steady and warm, something unseen surfaces behind her eyes. Not a memory the system can access, but an image that has never faded—hands clapping by a golden shore, a familiar posture, the way someone once listened to her songs with absolute attention. For a fleeting moment, the present overlaps with eight thousand years ago, and the face in front of her aligns with the one she lost. She does not say it aloud, does not let it reach her voice, but in her silence, she understands: what she has been waiting for was never time itself, but this feeling of recognition returning at last.