The practice room was entirely empty, quiet far beyond usual silence. It wasn't just the kind of quiet where sounds don't echo or voices fall still; it felt like a shape all its own—thick, almost tangible, pressing down as if the very air stretched tight with unseen weight. The kind of silence where you can feel someone else breathing nearby, even if you can't see them. It had that strange, heavy quality that made the space feel haunted, chilled, like a space caught between worlds.
Haru stood before the mirror again, body tense with an unexplainable unease. The dim lighting cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sweat streaks that clung to his skin. His hair was tousled from all the restless pacing earlier, his eyes tired but fixated. When he looked at himself, he saw someone who was worn out, someone caught in a limbo he couldn't fully understand. His reflection stared back at him, not just showing his face but echoing something deeper—exhaustion mixed with an almost desperate need for answers.
Behind him, Minju floated silently—her form softly glowing in the shadows. She hovered a few feet away, her presence quiet but intense, like a ghost observing from just outside the frame of reality. Neither of them spoke at first. Words seemed unnecessary in that silence, and maybe even impossible. They only shared a look, heavy with unspoken feelings and questions that refused to be answered.
After a long moment, Minju finally whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "I've been avoiding this room," she admitted, voice trembling slightly. Her words hung in the air, fragile and uncertain, like she was revealing something she'd been carrying alone for too long.
Haru turned slightly, giving her a long look. "I figured," he said quietly, recognizing her hesitance. The silence stretched again, thick and filled with the weight of their thoughts.
Minju shifted closer to the mirror, her glowing form flickering faintly as if her own energy was wavering. Her voice became more distant, almost dreamy. "I keep thinking maybe it's nothing. Maybe I'm just imagining the boy in the glass. Maybe it's a side effect of ghosthood—like insomnia, but on some deeper, more staring level. Like my mind's self-destruction, twisting reality into shadows. It might just be all in my head, a trick my brain plays when it's trying to process things I can't see or understand."
Haru didn't laugh or dismiss her fears. Instead, he looked at her intently and said, "Look again," with quiet authority.
They both waited silently, eyes fixed on the mirror, anticipation building. The room seemed to hold its breath with them. Then, suddenly—a flicker of movement, quick and uncertain. The air seemed to ripple as if reality itself was bending.
And then, there he was. A clear image emerged—still, tall, and straight in form, standing just over Haru's shoulder within the glass. He was the same figure—wiry and lean, with an air of quiet watchfulness. His presence was steady, almost like he was frozen in time, still observing the scene unfolding in the mirror. His eyes, dark and unreadable, seemed to follow them even now.
It was almost as if he was waiting for them to notice him, to acknowledge his silent vigil. But this time, Minju gasped sharply, a sound of shock and recognition. Her entire glowing form seemed to vibrate with energy as she took a shaky step forward.
"I know him," she whispered, voice trembling with awe and confusion. Her eyes widened as she stared at the ghostly figure. "I don't remember him—at least, I don't think I do. But my soul, my core being, knows him. It's like—like I've met him before, in another life or another world. That makes no sense, right? I mean, I was dead. But somehow, I recognize that face. Somehow, I know what he is."
Haru spun around sharply, taken aback. "What do you mean?"
"I— I can't explain it," Minju faltered, clutching her glowing head as if trying to hold herself together. "But I keep getting flashes. Images. There's a rooftop—dark, night sky above, maybe. A song. We were trying to write it together, or maybe for someone else. I think—it feels like a memory buried deep inside me. Like we were working on music, and now I keep projecting back to that moment, even though it makes no sense. It's like my brain short-circuits when I get too close to understanding. When I try to recall more, the memories fade, or I get overwhelmed by feeling like I've lost something important."
They sank down to the wooden floor, crisscrossed knees and exhausted breaths filling the quiet space. The weight of what they had just seen lingered heavily in the room, pressing against their chests. Minju's glow flickered like a candle in a breeze, flickering softer now, losing some of its earlier intensity.
"I thought I died chasing idols I'd never meet," she said softly, eyes distant. "But maybe I was chasing something else all along. Something I couldn't see or understand. Something that was part of my own story, even if I don't remember it fully now."
Haru nodded, understanding her words more than he wanted to admit. "Like your own stage," he said quietly, testing the idea.
Minju looked at him, eyes glowing faintly, a sad smile touching her lips. "Yeah. I had a notebook once. A real one, with pages filled with songs and ideas. I remember the name now—something cheesy. Like 'Star Rain' or 'Moon Notes.' It was silly but felt special to me."
He raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "Do you think that notebook still exists? That it's somewhere out there?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "Probably not. I think that notebook is just gone. Except—" she looked back at the mirror—"what if some part of it, some fragment of that dream or plan, still lingers?"
They both smiled softly, caught between hope and disbelief.
Then Haru broke the silence with a question. His voice was low but firm. "What if that boy was also a trainee like us? Someone trying to make it, just like I am now?"
Minju's gaze returned to the mirror, her glow flickering brighter at first, then dimmer again. Her voice was almost a whisper. "If he was… then he's probably stuck, just like me. Trapped somewhere between this world and whatever's beyond. Just like us."
Back in his dorm room, Haru laid on his bed but couldn't find sleep. His mind kept drifting to the past and to moments he couldn't let go of. He reached over and grabbed an old sketchbook from his desk drawer. It was worn and full of sketches, notes, and ideas for choreography. He sat up and flipped through the pages carefully, tracing the lines of dance moves he'd drawn during long nights of practice. Each sketch was a small piece of his dreams, a step toward a future he desperately wanted to reach.
At the very back of the sketchbook, he had taped tiny fan letters—small scraps of paper filled with words from people who believed in him. Those little notes weren't just paper and ink; they were reminders that someone out there saw his potential. Someone noticed his hard work and wanted to cheer him on, even from afar. Sometimes, Haru would take them out and read the words again, feeling a quiet warmth when he saw the hope and encouragement in their lines. Those letters kept him going when doubts crept in, reminding him that he wasn't alone.
As he stared at those taped notes, something caught his eye—an unexpected pull, an urge to check again. One of the fan letters had slipped loose, fluttering onto the bed beside him. He reached out and picked it up, holding it in his hands. It was different from the rest. The handwriting was familiar now—smooth and steady, with a gentle but confident tone. The words on the paper felt like they carried more meaning, more emotion than the others.
"You looked like you were chasing a ghost. I hope she finds you again," he read silently. Those words hit him hard. They weren't just a simple fan message; they sounded personal—like someone saw through his struggles, his fears. Something about that sentence resonated, like an echo from a voice he knew well but hadn't heard in a long time. He looked at the letter again, his mind racing with questions.
Suddenly, Minju was there, leaning over his shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she read the letter with him. Her presence added an unspoken weight to the moment. She listened quietly, absorbing the words, as if trying to understand what they meant to Haru. Then she spoke softly, almost hesitantly:
"Maybe… that's him. The boy. The one who wrote that."
Haru's eyes widened slightly. His mind raced to connect the dots. "Why would he be writing to me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. The question hung between them, heavy with uncertainty. Minju didn't respond right away. She went quiet, lost in her thoughts.
Finally, she spoke again, her voice gentle and low. "Because maybe… you're the only one who can help us move on." Her words made Haru pause. Her tone carried a weight of hope and a hint of conviction. She believed that maybe, just maybe, he was the missing piece in something larger. Something that could finally bring clarity or peace. It was as if she saw a promise hidden in the letter that might hold the key to their future.
For a moment, they sat in silence. The night pressed on, shadows stretching across the room. But those words lingered, sharp and clear, hinting at truths waiting to be uncovered. Haru stared at the letter in his hands and wondered what it all meant. He understood now that this wasn't just about his dancing dreams but about something deeper—something that could perhaps help heal wounds they had both carried for a long time.
The morning after the strange, restless night, Haru sat quietly at a small table, his mind consumed with one urgent task. He took out a worn notebook, the one Minju kept tucked away in her bag, and stared at the blank page in front of him. Without wasting a moment, he began to write down everything Minju could remember from their brief and fragmented conversations over the past few days. Every snippet of lyrics she had spoken aloud, every melody floating in her mind during quiet moments, each rooftop feeling she described with a sense of longing or despair. He jotted down every half-formed memory, unsure if it still held the full story but certain that each small piece mattered. These fragments, seemingly unconnected, might someday lead to a deeper understanding. Haru was convinced that by piecing them together, he could find that notebook, the missing puzzle piece he needed. That notebook might hold the key to unlock the full story Minju was only beginning to recall. Maybe, if he could find it and read through her notes, her lyrics, and her sketches, he'd finally understand what had been lost. Perhaps that understanding could reveal why she seemed so distant, so haunted by memories she couldn't quite grasp. It was a quiet, desperate hope, but he clung to it. The idea that through these words—through her art—he might uncover more about her, about them both, kept him going.
Meanwhile, Minju drifted beside him, her presence surprisingly calm given the chaos of their thoughts. She seemed peaceful, almost detached from the storm inside her. Her eyes were distant, fixed on some invisible point far beyond their small space, yet she listened as Haru scribbled furiously. Her breathing was steady, and her mind seemed to hum with a strange quiet clarity. It was as if she already knew what Haru was searching for, even if she couldn't remember it fully herself. She looked over at him and softly said, "I think we were writing a goodbye song." Her voice broke slightly after those words, as if saying them made her feel vulnerable or scared. She shook her head, trying to dismiss the weight of her own words. But the statement hung heavily between them, adding an extra layer of meaning to their quiet quest.
Haru paused, uncertain but intrigued. "For who?" he asked gently, watching her closely.
Her voice cracked as she responded, "For ourselves." The words came out hesitantly, trembling with emotion. She wasn't just talking about writing a song; she was touching on something deeper—an attempt to find closure or perhaps a farewell to a past they couldn't quite grasp anymore. It was a song about saying goodbye not to someone else, but to parts of themselves they had lost or forgotten. This idea struck Haru with a strange mix of sadness and hope. Deep down, he knew she was right. Sometimes, creating these songs, these words, was a way of letting go. A way to show what was left behind or what had been long buried. Maybe, in the process of writing their farewell, they could find peace enough to move forward. Clarifying what they'd been through, even if only in music and memories, could be the start of healing. The notion of saying goodbye to their fading memories felt like the first step toward understanding—something tangible to hold onto.
So, they sat there silently, the weight of their shared memories—and the unspoken future—forming around them. Both aware that this was more than just music. It was about survival, rediscovery, and the quiet hope that, somehow, their stories would still find a way to be told.