Tokyo is calling

The rehearsal hall had stilled to a hush. Only the muted creak of aging floorboards and the rhythmic ticking of the ceiling fan remained.

My muscles ached—not from exertion, but from the effort of holding everything together.

Sylvie and Renzo were waiting near the open back doors, where the breeze from the courtyard offered a momentary mercy from the summer heat. I crossed to them slowly, toweling the back of my neck, trying not to look as shaken as I felt.

“You survived,” Renzo said, offering me a half-empty bottle of water like a peace offering.

“Barely,” I murmured, taking it.

Sylvie looked me up and down. “She grazed you,” she muttered, referring to Patricia. “Like a shark taking the first taste.”

“She knows what she’s doing,” I said, trying to sound unfazed.

“She always does,” Sylvie agreed, tone flat. “Question is—do you?”

Renzo blinked. “Wow. Sylvie turned philosophical today.”

Sylvie arched a brow. “Let’s just say some dancers fight with teeth.”

I tried to smile. It almost worked. “I am in no fighting mood today.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out the envelope. The second one from home. I hadn’t opened it earlier, too shaken from rehearsal, but now my hands moved on their own.

The seal tore clean.

The paper inside bore the cold efficiency of a bureaucrat: the family property in Tokyo had entered probate. I was required in person. Legal verification, documentation. If I failed to appear within six months, the property would be liquidated.

I stared at the letter, its sharp words blurring into static. That house wasn’t just a building—it was the last place that held me to my summer time. The place Kyoshi walked me home from after school. The place Shizuka once told me I would outgrow.

And I had.

But it had never really let go.

Unfinished.

That word clung to me like dust.

Renzo tilted his head. “Bad news?”

I folded the letter carefully, more gently than it deserved.

“Not bad. Just… binding.”

Sylvie leaned against the rail. “You’re thinking of going, aren’t you?”

“I’m not thinking,” I said. “I’ve decided.”

Renzo blinked. “Wait, seriously? All the way to Tokyo? Now?”

Sylvie shot him a look.

“Yes, Renzo. All the way to Tokyo.”

He raised both hands. “Just checking.”

I looked out across the courtyard. Cicadas buzzed somewhere in the trees. The sunlight was too bright, too golden. It didn’t match the heaviness inside me.

“I need to face it,” I said simply. “The house… it’s part of everything I buried. And now it’s clawing back to the surface.”

Sylvie’s gaze was unreadable. “You know Luciana won’t approve.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“She’s not the kind of woman you talk into anything.”

I exhaled.

“Then I’ll talk through her.”

Renzo grinned. “Oof. There it is. The fire’s back.”

He leaned closer, eyes gleaming.

“Just remember—Luciana once stared down Stella Marina herself. Back when Marina kept begging for time off to chase her singing career, Luciana made her choose: stage or studio. Half those spiteful hits Marina wrote? Probably aimed straight at Luciana.”

Sylvie barked a laugh.

“Oh please, Renzo. You talk like you were there making the calls. Weren’t you barely a teenager then—running water bottles and sneaking autographs?”

Renzo smirked but didn’t back down.

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t see the war.”

I cut through their banter.

“And it’s been ten years since that war. Legends cool. People change. Luciana will listen—she has to.”

Sylvie studied me a beat longer, then nodded once.

“Good. Just don’t burn the place down on your way out.”

Later that afternoon, I was outside Luciana’s Office. The corridor was still. My slippers made no sound on the marbled floor. I stood outside the door, letter folded once in my hand like a flag of truce.

I straightened my posture, brushed imaginary dust from my skirt, and knocked twice.

“Avanti,” came Luciana’s voice—firm as always.

I stepped inside.

The room smelled faintly of old wood and starch. Bookshelves lined with annotated scores. A perfectly sharpened pencil sat beside a closed folder, aligned to the edge of her desk with unnerving precision.

Luciana looked up, removing her glasses without surprise. “Natsumi.”

“May I sit?”

She nodded, gesturing without a word.

The silence between us was not hostile. It hummed with expectation. She had seen my performance today. She had seen Patricia’s. “There’s something I need to do,” I murmured, unfolding the letter and placing it on her desk.

She read it once, then again. Her expression didn’t shift—but the edge in her gaze softened, just slightly.

“Your family’s property,” she murmured.

I nodded. “They need me there. I’m the last one who can sign. It’s… not just legal.” I took a deeper breath this time. “It’s personal.”

Luciana placed the letter down, fingertips resting atop it.

“You’ve drifted for weeks,” she said. “Right before summer. I thought it was fatigue. Or guilt. But it’s this, isn’t it? This house. This shadow.”

I met her eyes. “I’ve been trying to outrun it. But it’s pulling harder than I expected.”

Luciana stood, moving to the window. She watched the light filter through the tall glass like she was watching time itself pass.

“You are a rare dancer, Natsumi,” she said. “But even rare dancers break. And the stage is merciless.”

She turned to me again. “Go.”

I blinked. “Just like that?”

“You want me to fight you?” Her mouth curved—barely. “I won’t. Your body is here but your spirit is pacing the corridors of a past life in an empty house thousands of kilometers away.”

I swallowed, emotions swelling faster than I could manage.

“I can be back in a week—”

“You’ll take two,” she interrupted. “I’ll have Renzo book your flight. And I’ll speak with the company. You’ll need an escort, given the… threats.”

I nodded, stunned by how quickly she moved from decision to action. She didn’t fumble. She didn’t stall. And that gave me strength.

Luciana came around the desk and laid a hand—cool and steady—on my shoulder.

“You haven’t lost yourself yet, Natsumi,” she said. “But I fear you’re trying to become someone else. Go back. Reclaim whatever part of you still waits there.”

I lowered my head in a quiet bow and whispered. “Thank you.”

And for the first time in a long time, I felt the warmth of something close to hope. Not for the stage. Not even for the role. Just for myself.