“Seina,” He expressed my name with a sternness that was in step with a strict teacher patrolling the school hall for any misdoings, “You’re in a hurry.”

His words held no animosity, no judging meanings or hidden edge. For all their firmness, they were clad in a surprisingly tender coating. It was as if he had forgotten to show kindness openly but still possessed it closely tucked against his old heart.

“Director Ttio.” I offered back, looking up into his droopy gaze. He nodded, a silent acknowledgement as his hands warily readjusted their grip on the small stack of papers clutched within them.

He seemed cautious about them. His thoughts evaluating his own body, scanning his worn fingers for any sign of treason. The mere trace of it warranting a changing of the guard, trading one aged finger for the other. All in the fear that one day they’ll give up this game of musical chairs and lose whatever dexterity they still carried.

“Is that the script?” I asked without a dash of curiosity.

“This?” He spoke to himself, buying the time his mind needed to come up with the answer, “No, it isn’t.” He finished with a shake of his head as if a double confirmation was necessary.

“Have you seen Kaede?”

His back straightened at the mention of her name- the power of a goddess to a believer. He looked into my eyes deeply, but at the same time, he wasn’t seeing me. I wasn’t certain what he was seeing; it might have been nothing. He could simply be wondering where she is, searching for the answer, all while his eyes absentmindedly stared into mine.

“Miss Esumi? Yes, she’s in room A3.” He turned around, his hand pointing down the hallway, “Take a right. It's the first door after the staircase.”

I offered my thanks which he regarded with a nod before we both moved past each other and began walking away. His step appeared more energised as he did, almost like his morning coffee had finally hit his strained brain and kicked it into working unhindered.

There was no purpose to my question. I already knew the answer, but it was the easiest way to bring this conversation to its natural conclusion. The polite method to inform him that my time is devoted to the play- to her.

So I rounded the hallway’s corner, the door of A3 coming into view just beyond the staircase; and as I did, I could swear I heard his whispering tone muttering, good luck.

He didn’t say a thing.

But even if he did, it would have made no difference.

The hallway kept that uniform red that covered Hanako Hall from top to bottom. Layered over its walls in a vain attempt at elegance, it carried the essence of a gold-plated car: classless and showy. However, it was this crass appearance that accentuated the door.

It was plain- a boorish white with a frosted window and a brass handle. Forgettable was a fair word to use… except it wasn’t. The door stood out by contrast; its unassuming style was opposed to its surroundings. An electric torch in a room of dripping wax candles; a battle of illumination, the pretentious versus the ordinary.

It’s a torii gate. Unpainted but not bare, wrapped up in shimenawa that ran along its top. The hanging white hemp rope sings softly, its whisper a ward adept at warning evil away. To purify a goddess’ abode, to mark the boundary between the sacred and the mundane.

My hand found the brass handle. There was no torii gate here.

There should have been one.

But there wasn’t.

I turned the doorknob. The door opened with no more than a peep. Its whisper hidden yet adept in its calming, a soft song performed in the midst of a scene. It warded no evil, and it spoke only one word.

Purple.

It consumed this room, dripping from draping flowers, spreading out between bulbs, bouncing from shelf to shelf, from table to table, then dwindling out atop the benches and finally coming to a finish.

Flowers raised in every open position settled in pots of clay, or plastic, or wood. Appearing as sedentary royalty seated on a throne overlooking the rest of this comparatively sparse room.

And in the centre of it all was her.

Kaede Esumi.

Her presence was so that it transformed this would-be imperial chamber into a prayer hall. Devout and resolute, lit up not by candles or the rays of light coming from the open window but by a scene.

One so vast that it eclipsed the purple, dimmed the lights, and silenced the audience.

“Oh…” She sighed as a widow in mourning.

The scene bled into the room. Seeping onto this landscape canvas of reality, it suffocated all other colours, a mutiny of pigmentation, the incandescents of abandoned red neon and flaking orange paint that overtook the purple of this briskly dissipating room as it transformed into a world of acting.

There was no shrine maiden in sight, yet that didn’t do a thing to stop this pervasive sense of divinity. As if the scene I had been pulled into was a storm amidst an ocean mere moments away from being parted down the middle.

No petition to be heard as her creation became actuality, so vivid that to call it verisimilar would be a heresy of the highest magnitude.

“I remember this place…” Jinko spoke her words quietly, a murmur that appeared as if it had slipped from her lips. An accidental display of emotions, the façade of her face crumbling as nostalgia and loss engrossed her vision.

Before her stood a deserted game arcade building. Closed off and shut, its windows shattered, its red neon long dead, and the orange paint that once covered its front left in tatters that flaked off in pieces at the barest touch.

She hesitated for a moment, taking the time she needed to compose herself. This building is a monument to her childhood, yet in the time she’d been gone, it had tapered out into the oblivion of memories.

It was a testament to the years she’d lost. Four years came and went, and she remains who she was at their beginning, while everything else in this world has moved on, forgetful of her existence.

She took her first steps towards the arcade building, carefully navigating the pavement before it. The vast buildings that line the street formed a curtain of silent observers, blocking out what little sunlight could pierce the rotten clouds of noxious yellow.

Her movement stalled, though her head maintained its gloomy watch on the building. “When did this happen?” she asked aloud, her words having no obvious recipient but wanting and demanding all the same.

“I’m not sure; I’ve never been here before,” Eighty-Three replied, her words an exact match to the script. This place was foreign to her, and she was just a tourist going through Jinko’s past.

She was playing both roles.

“Sorry…” Eighty-Three continued her voice near-mute, and her head hung low. Every fibre of her being is alight with regret. The shame permeates each inch of her skin, that feeling of uselessness, of being unable to help your sister.

They’ll reach a balance of love by the end of this act, but that’s yet to come. So, for now, Eighty-Three’s boundless love only serves the same purpose as self-flagellation, each strike pushing her deeper and deeper into her uncertainty.

Of who she is.

Her reality has been turned on its head. Jinko’s return marks the sprouting of her loss of self. A disarray of who she is, what her life has been, and the questioning of every relationship she’s had since her creation barely four years ago.

Of what she is.

A sister who is denied by her twin. The doubting of what that means, how the girl she thought was her sister does not even recognise her beyond the similarities of their shared face, and all that achieved is inspiring fear.

“Let’s go inside.” Jinko declared, her voice regaining a trace of its usual firmness, though it couldn’t discard the entirety of its recently burdened shakiness.

Eighty-Three nodded and hurried after Jinko as she slipped past one of the broken windows and disappeared inside the darkness of the arcade building. The staleness of the decomposing carpet caused the pair to briefly hold their breaths before the inevitability of breathing crept up on them and forced the matter.

I was further behind the pair, following her along this perfect scene of acting. She did not acknowledge me with her actions, her focus consumed by the crafting of all that was around us. However, she knew I was here, this was a showcase, an example to copy, a footpath to follow.

This is an announcement from her to me, and it proclaims; This is the level you must match. So match it.

The inside of the arcade building was in ruins, mould enveloped the floor, likely thanks to sticky drinks spilt and salty food dropped prior to its closing. Tickets, fake coins, and ripped fluffy toys littered the ground, all leaking out of broken and overturned arcade machines that retained little of their joyful nature.

Jinko and Eighty-Three charted an odd route, moving around the obstacles of pinball machines, coin pushers, and claw machines. Almost all lay in pieces, smashed open and stripped of everything of value, leaving only the artwork that covered their cases intact, the sole indicator of what they once were.

Wires and cords crisscrossed the flooring, turning the building into an awkward sort of climbing course as the pair avoided the multitude of trip hazards that partnered together with this place, like bleach and ammonia.

The memories of this place bite at Jinko. Her hand drifts across the top of a pinball machine still upright, and then she is taken from the present to relive those hours spent here. She wants to say it was better back then, but she isn’t sure…

“Jinko?” Eighty-Three calls out her sister’s name as if she’s taste testing a peculiar-looking drink for the first time, apprehensive about the reaction she’ll receive, “Are you okay?”

Jinko doesn’t reply straight away. Her red eyes remain locked on the pinball machine in front of her. The touch of its metal is all too familiar to her nostalgic senses, causing her thoughts to flow out unregulated: “Dad used to take me here. It was nice.”

She spoke the second part of that sentence too quickly. It’s intentional on Kaede’s part, Jinko’s enjoyment of this place began to fade as she grew up, but Dr. Akamine continued bringing her. It’s created a blender of emotions, all caused by the tint of sentimentality. Her distaste of this place and all of their reasons are pushed to the rear while her remembered delight takes the forefront.

“I wasn’t any good at the games. He won most of the prizes for me.” Jinko continued as she moved towards another machine, this one lying on its side and cracked open. She knelt down and inspected what was left of it, “I think I miss it.”

“We could try powering up one of the machines?” Eighty-Three offered, her tone making it plain to see that she was uneasily attempting to comfort her sister, “Maybe play a few games?” She finished, slowly approaching Jinko like a cowardly cat-person does a napping stray feline.

Jinko suddenly stood up, brushing a lock of red curly hair out of her face. She patted down her clothes and moved away from the machine. “No, thank you. I’d rather do anything else.” She replied with such swiftness that she wasn’t even able to process her words until they had been spoken.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

The two shared a silent look. Eighty-Three, unsure of what to say next, and Jinko annoyed at herself for spurning this place that holds so many memories that harshly.

“The ticket booth is over here.” Jinko broke the silence first, focusing the attention on the prize booth where players would hand in won tickets to claim a reward.

Half ruined, barely standing, and leaning against a plaster-gutted pillar, the faded purples that once lined the ticket booth were pulled from reality; those royal flowers and observant petals finding a use even in the depths of this forged world. A direct copy of colour, this purple mixing in with white and assorted beside navy blue, it is a combination of regal ambience yet strangely at odds with its adolescent target demographic.

She approached with an abandonment of caution. Too quickly to think, her actions pushed through and out of her mind with such a haste that she was able to avoid the thought of them. It was a distraction, a smokescreen concealing what she did not want to see.

There is love within this place, but there is also so much hurt. Jinko feels a guilt deep within her soul. She wants, with all her being, to love this place unconditionally, yet she is unable to. She may have laughed here, found enjoyment in the flashing lights of the machines, seen and experienced happiness in every corner of this vast room, but the truth of it all…

Is that this place isn’t her’s.

It’s her father’s.

The laughter discovered here, was laughter he caused. The enjoyment created in these machines, was enjoyment brought on by him. The happiness spread around this open space, was happiness borne of his actions.

And towards the end of it all, Jinko’s opinions began to sour. A boredom set in, and her age argued against this childish place. Yet it was never given time to be realised, for her disappearance happened soon after.

That is where her guilt originates from. A child growing up and demanding a change of pace, new games to replace the old. However, now she returns, the same but also not, and all she’s left with is a regret of rallying so resistantly against the joyful activities of a family of two.

It is not her fault. Appreciation is a rare trait for a child whose every day is unique and brings new trials. It is only once days turn to years and that warm uniqueness of youth fades away does it become the norm.

I’m not sure how much of this the audience is supposed to understand. Backstory cannot be relayed in just actions. Perhaps it's all just meant to remain as assumptions and speculations. Maybe it's up to the audience to find their own meanings, look inside of themselves and relate whatever they can decipher to whatever they feel is right.

I believe the core message is there. Appreciation for the past is trivial compared to appreciation for the present, and as we lament yesterday, it becomes easier to treasure today.

But other than that? That’s where it gets a little more complicated. It’s irrelevant, in the end, the results will depend on us, and us alone. And I’ll have to offer an exceptional result if I want to be anywhere near half as good as Kaede Esumi.

“Is this it?” Jinko asked herself, a quiet whisper equal to the gentle blow of the wind through an open window.

Her hand caressed the beaten remains of the ticket booth, its splintered wood and cracked paint the leftovers of its debris. A marching band’s array of colours, long used to excited wails and proud smiles, was now reduced to a collapsed desk of rot littered with crumbling scraps of tickets.

She tried to grasp one of the tickets in her hand, but it fell into damp pieces as her fingers made the attempt. There was nothing here for her anymore, this place was a ruin everywhere except in her memories, but still, she struggled to let go.

Behind the desk, there was a collection of stacked shelves. Atop them, there once sat prizes of all sorts. Now, most of them had vanished, scavenged in the night, and those that survived the thieves' pickings were left bare to the leaky pipes above and the growing mould. Even so, some things held a trace of what they once were, as resting in a neat stack sat a tower of fake coins painted in shiny gold.

They had no value. They wouldn’t be here if they did, but they held their purpose well; a gateway to the past, a memento of a lost time. That’s all Jinko needed, and these were all she would get. All of the gifts her father won for her from this place were gone, thrown out into the trash by her rash actions. She judged that she was too old for them; her desire to grow up spurred her to discard her childhood as if it would quicken her journey to adulthood.

It was her boon, the choice a child made, and now she regrets it. But there is no one to shield her from it.

Too eagerly her hand moved to take hold of one of the coins, the misjudged speed and overarching desires knocking over the stack of coins, sending them tumbling behind the ticket booth and scattering them across the blackened carpet below.

“Ah!” Eighty-Three reacted first, her worry and shock leaving her mouth as an elicited gasp.

On the other hand, Jinko merely stalled her movement. Her arm remained in its place before falling to rest on the desk in defeat. She closed her eyes, her emotions having boiled over for too long. Tucked deep within her, she inhaled, then exhaled, trying to find some semblance of peace.

Eighty-Three was moved by love and care, her form slipping behind the desk and disappearing beneath its top. She came up a moment later, however, no fake coins were cradled in her hands, but instead a fluffy pink teddy bear in too good a condition to be a coincidence.

She held it towards Jinko with a pleasing smile on her face. She wasn’t sure why they had come here in the first place, but ignorance of reason did not mean ignorance of reaction, and Jinko’s was more than enough to gauge that this building represented something of importance to her.

“Hey,” Eighty-Three began, her enthusiastic call opening Jinko’s eyes and bringing them to meet her own, “Look at this.” She continued, hopeful that this deed of hers was enough to instil even a small amount of joy within the twin she still perceived Jinko as.

“Thank you,” Jinko replied, taking the bear into her hands. She remained staring at it for a moment longer while a satisfied look settled on Eighty-Three’s face. Then, she unceremoniously laid it down on the top of the ticket booth. “But I don’t need it,” she said with resignation, and Eighty-Three’s face transformed from triumph to defeat.

“Oh…” Was her sole reply, and she wondered why she ever expected anything else from this sister who so adamantly resented her, denied her very existence, and struggled to even tolerate her presence.

It was a cruelty thrust upon Eighty-Three by Jinko, but neither side could be blamed. Eighty-Three is all love because she inherited the love that their father once felt for Jinko, and Jinko is all fear because she has, and is witnessing her replacement live, thrive, and consume everything she thought was unique to her.

“Let’s leave.” Jinko announced, her demeanour granting Eighty-Three little care as she turned towards the exit of the arcade building, leaving her clone with nothing to do but stare at her back or run after her.

And so she did, but first, her red eyes, the same pair that Jinko has, stopped to loiter on the abandoned pink teddy bear for a split second. A debate started and finished in an instant, and her hands hurriedly tucked the teddy away into her bag before she raced to reach Jinko.

Her legs began to blur and soon they faded as she reached Jinko’s side. The arcade machines went next, unfocusing and losing form as they vanished to reveal the room of A3 behind them. The rotten, mouldy carpet followed soon after, replaced with varnished pale wood flooring. The building muddled and drifted from existence last, welcoming the purples of swaying flowers back into the picture; each one stood atop a guardpost scattered around every point of this room’s walls.

Jinko turned towards me; red eyes met my blue, with unmatching red hair to my blonde- shorter than me but rapidly melting before my eyes. Jinko was soon to be no more, an ever-bright inferno of a blazing candle; dripping wax was her skin as she fell apart and unveiled a form only found in this reality of a world.

A scene has concluded, and Kaede Esumi has returned.

“Seina,” She began, her tone monotonous yet outlined with a buzz of hopeful curiosity, “Have you come to act?” She spoke the question as if she were asking a fish whether it had learnt to walk, yet it was said with a smile, one that did not seem acted, even if it was.

She truly has little belief in my abilities, but that comes as no surprise. For what respect does a blacksmith give to a drunk with a hammer, if any at all? That is the comparison between us, my acting is no more than the imitation of a monkey as it follows the scientist’s directions and places shapes into holes. She is the sky, and I am barely myself.

However, there is no challenge to be issued here. The gladiator arena remains empty, the goddess rests on her throne, and David is unable to prevail over Goliath.

This is my petition, to uplift an actress, to bargain for a dream, and to keep a sister at my pace.

“I’m here to ask for some advice about acting.”

There was no tori gate, my bow unneeded at its opening. But this was the heart of the temple complex, my form purified not by the wash basin but by the bathing of a scene.

Her eyes were alight with expectations. A nebula of stars contained within them, sanguine and anticipating, my question the rain to the drought, as if months had passed since she first wished for this.

No offering box to be found, but I offered anyway. The five yen coin came in the form of my breath, held silently before it fell and clattered between the grates of the offering box.

This was my everything, a promise of the play’s success, life itself given and kept all for my sister. So that she may maintain the pace she needs to stay at my side.

Beauty danced between the purple flowers. My eyes traced their stems, running along to the peak of their petals. They swayed as the wind slipped through the gap in the window, witnesses to my oath.

Next came the bell, non-existent as the rest of this make-believe temple, but nevertheless, it hung above the offering box. Warded and peaceful, it was evil’s foe, and as my hand rang the thick rope that draped from it, I knew there would be no need for the last step.

A goddess cared little for my bow, unnecessarily given twice, the same as my hands as they clapped in succession, and as the final pointless action, I clasped my palms together and spoke my prayer.

My lips opened to ask the question. There was no prayer here.

There should have been one.

But there wasn’t.

“How can I help Emiko get better at acting?”

She cannot be allowed to fall on that stage.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Kaede’s voice was a volcano eruption, exploding with the tonal force of a crashing chandelier. The anger of a noble woman shrieking out a provocation made towards another; a ballroom gathering transformed into a battleground of jagged words, all carving flesh into the most grievous of wounds.

I watched, paralysed, constricted, and dumbstruck. The looming ash clouds above sealing any hope of retreat, the collapsing glass too fast to avoid, and the fury of a lady elevated to such a height of society that no mere peasant has any chance of hiding away.

A petition ended; a dream woken from.

“You have no right.” She declared her tone firm as steel and her glare repulsive, pushing me back with intensity. “You cannot act without missteps, forgotten lines, vacant emotions, this persistent misinterpretation of character, the basic ability to follow a script without tainting it; it’s impossible; you fail every time.”

There was no reply to fall back on, no proclamation to tame her targeted anger. Her words were irrefutable. Not even the work mode of Seina would be able to stand against this hurricane; the stone she was usually made of suddenly discovered to be weakened pulp blown away in the storm.

“How can you beg to help another when it is you that needs the help? Where does this ignorance come from? Is it arrogance? Do you see yourself as elevated? That only you’re able to reach a hand down to raise another up? I don't understand, has subtle improvement given you this confidence, the comparison that you’ve grown better than the utter incompetent you were? Surely not, you’ve gone from one to two on a scale of a hundred, this development is equivalent to a baby’s first steps, you’re nothing exceptional.”

What was there to say? I was pinned and unable to fire back. What is this improvement I’ve earned compared to the vastness of her abilities? Is it arrogance? My growth over Seina, an impossible task that I somehow managed, did that cause me to stall? No, it didn’t, but it did highlight the contrast between myself and Emiko, and how could I leave her behind after all she’s done? I am a mouse before a tank, yet I asked for help, not for myself as I should have, but for Emiko, someone whose acting will contribute almost nothing to the overall performance on that stage she so desires.

“You’re not an actress. You’re an imitation of one who can barely display a performance worthy of being graded as adequate.”

I have no right.

“Do you understand that our fates are tied together? Your failure becomes mine, and I cannot give a showing of outstanding if you struggle to display Eighty-Three at even the lowest of standards. I have to succeed; there is no other route available to me, if there was, I would seize it without hesitation, but this is all I have left. The audience needs to see me act. You cannot hold me back.”

But I can’t let this go, I know it’s sacrificial; but I’d do anything to preserve her dream.

“Please.”

Kaede took a step closer to me, bringing her face mere centimetres away from mine. Her eyes were pointed, tightened into piercing blades that looked through me. Her expression was one of outrage that even after her cutting explanation, I would still persist. It both shocked her and ignited her worry and tension.

“I won’t let you ruin this.” She spoke it as a threat, an unsubtle hint that she would do anything to offer the most perfect of performances. It was said with a mix of regret, a passed anguish that she didn’t chase me off the stage at my first stumble, that she had brought into Ttio’s, or perhaps Hatsuko’s gamble and allowed me to remain in the hopes I’d eventually measure up to her.

Maybe she simply didn’t care for as long as my performance didn’t diminish hers.

Yes, that seems like the most plausible reason, which means there is still one avenue open.

“Let me prove myself.”

She was in the middle of leaving the room, her steps taking her across the room towards the door. My words gave her pause, stalling her movement; she turned to look at me, her anger still present but slightly tempered for the time being.

“Act 2, Scene one. Rehearse it with me. Here and now, the third attempt.”

“I accept.”

The only two words I had to offer. A bounty on my performance; a goddess stands as the judge, and the prize of success is twofold.

A petition approved; a dream maintained.

And the proof I am an actress.