Location: Abandoned Hikari-no-Kiba Film Studio, Nerima District, Tokyo

  The evening breeze carried the scent of rust and peeling paint. The building stood in neglect—once a filming location for the series that turned Arima Kana into a legend. This was where she was known as the "genius child actress," the site of her first award… and where she had slowly begun to forget who she truly was.

  Now, she had returned.

  And with her—Fitran Fate.

  “I can't believe this place is still standing,” Fitran said, gazing at the tall pillars and scattered scripts like the remnants of lost dreams.

  With a hint of hesitation, Kana observed the dust floating in the air, as the dim sunlight filtered through the cracks of the broken windows. Her heart trembled, recalling the sweet and bitter moments entwined within these walls. She remembered how laughter and applause once filled the atmosphere, now replaced by a stifling silence.

  “Most people want this place to be torn down,” Kana replied softly. “Including me.”

  Fitran furrowed his brow, “Why? This is part of history.” He cleared his throat, recognizing the weight of emotion enveloping them. “So many memories are here.”

  Kana stared at the floor, where the peeling paint told stories of the past. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the empty room. “Sometimes, the memories are more painful than the loss itself,” she said, her voice barely audible, caught between nostalgia and despair.

  Fitran followed Kana into the central room—once a production space, now merely a shadow of its fallen glory. The echoes of their footsteps brushed against the old wooden floor, creating a low sound that seemed to awaken buried memories. The scent of dust and aged wood enveloped the air, invoking a strong sense of nostalgia, transporting them back to the beautiful moments stored in their minds.

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  Kana stopped, staring at the wall that was once filled with scripts, now reduced to remnants of tape and a stopped clock. A glimmer of tears lingered in the corner of her eye, memories flooding back to a time when dreams seemed as distant as the sky. It felt as if every corner of this room held hopes and aspirations that had gradually faded with the passage of time.

  “Because in this place, I lost myself.”

  They sat on the old chairs. Kana opened her small backpack and took out her old script. The whiteboard on the wall appeared to be peeling, revealing yellow stains that could not obscure the vibrant life that once thrived in this space.

  “When I was eleven, I was told to cry during a scene of family slaughter. I didn’t understand what loss meant. But they said I cried perfectly.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Fitran listened, his face calm. He observed Kana in silence, witnessing the struggle between doubt and hope reflected in her eyes, as if he wanted to hear more of the bitter tales scattered between those lines.

  “Then I went home... and couldn’t cry when my pet dog died.”

  Kana looked at Fitran. “I no longer know what is real.”

  Fitran took the script, flipping through the pages. The words were filled with emotion: tears, love, anger. Yet everything was neatly written, forced. Around them, the studio walls that once hummed with life were now silent, echoing only the memories of the audience's whispers that had successfully pierced the screen.

  “You’re too good at being someone else,” he said.

  Kana chuckled softly. “Until I forget how to be myself.”

  Yet behind her laughter, there was a profound sadness lingering. The scent of dust and peeling paint created a nostalgic atmosphere, as if every corner held a sorrowful tale of hopes that never came to fruition. She stood up and mimicked one of her favorite scenes from before. Her voice was high, trembling, a suppressed cry—perfect, just as the scriptwriter had envisioned.

  “Do you like that version?” she suddenly asked.

  Fitran looked deeply into her eyes. “It’s beautiful... but it’s not you.”

  As those words left his lips, a pain stirred in his heart, igniting memories of the stage they had too often shared together, which often trapped them in roles that were not their own. Kana moved closer. Very close.

  “If I stop being an actress... will you still love me?”

  Fitran didn’t respond immediately. He gazed into Kana’s eyes, which now held no pretense, longing for an answer that went beyond mere words.

  “If you discard all your masks, then who is left?”

  Kana fell silent.

  In that silence, the ticking of a clock in the corner of the room sounded painfully loud, emphasizing the uncertainty that hung between them. Fitran raised his hand and touched the girl’s cheek.

  “If all that remains is a wound... I will embrace it.”

  At that moment, time stood still for Kana.

  There was no applause. No spotlight. Just one man who didn’t care how many awards he had ever won.

  Outside the dusty window, the silhouette of a dove flew by, adding to the emptiness that had lingered in the atmosphere. And he moved closer.

  Their lips were almost touching—not because of a script, not because of passion, but from a need to feel real.

  Yet, Kana pulled away just before that.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “If I kiss you now... I don’t know if it’s me doing it, or the role that’s used to kissing a man in climactic scenes.”

  Fitran nodded. “You’re honest. That’s enough.”

  Kana grasped Fitran’s hand. “But I will learn to love... as Kana, not Arima.”

  The warmth of that handclasp washed over Kana's heart, reminding her of the quiet moments in the studio, where only the sound of the wind and the rustling dust accompanied her thoughts. Every corner of this studio felt familiar, as if it harbored many untold secrets. Her heart beat slowly, in tune with the gentle melody flowing from the corner of the room, awakening her curiosity to delve deeper into the meaning of truly feeling.

  Fitran gazed up at the studio ceiling.

  “Then allow me... to fall in love with Kana, who is learning to love.”

  Beneath those words lay a profound longing. This room was filled with the shadows of memories—the dim lights and walls that had repeatedly witnessed laughter and tears. Kana felt as if she stood on the brink between the past and the future, in a place where hope could grow even amidst the ruins.

  As the sun set, they sat together on the studio floor.

  There was no dialogue. No stage.

  Only two humans.

  Both of whom had lost themselves.

  Now, they were trying to reconstruct meaning—in silence. The relentless ticking of the clock resonated, emphasizing the significance of every passing second. Kana closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the darkness to envelop her, and felt those seconds drawing her deep into her thoughts, to a place where she could speak honestly to her heart.