“You just imagine it, and it all comes true~”

An old boxy TV rested atop a metal set of cabinets that have sat unopened for countless years. Its flashing images displayed an advertisement accompanied by a blaring jingle created with all the imagination that could possibly be squeezed from the cold stone that is a stagnant boardroom of robotic visionaries. The colourful screen cycled through pictures of a sandy beach with a group of teenagers playing around, the scene far too pixelated on the aged TV to even make out the brand of the plastic bottle that lays centrepiece half-buried in the sand.

A lean bald man sits behind a grey steel desk, his gaze down upon the script of Us of I as he idly flips between the pages, his hand occasionally comes up to his face and kneaded his chin in thought, the twitch of his thin brown moustache swaying as he did.

“Then you open your eyes and see a brand new sky!” The jingle continues, placing the branded water onto a pedestal of promise as if a sole drop from this product onto your tongue could realign your whole worldview.

The man slid another page from the front to the back, his eyes running along the sentences like a train stuck to a railway track, moving onwards by design rather than choice.

He wasn’t actually reading the words, it may look as if he were. But it's tricky to reread something you yourself had a hand in writing, he’s trying to, most certainly. Yet as he begins, his mind starts to fill out the sentence before he reaches the next word, and in the end, he’s no longer reading but remembering what he’s written.

A mistake appears, and his brain has already corrected it before his eyes arrive, and he continues without noticing; the misspelt word or poorly phrased grammar remaining unaltered. A part was rewritten by another, and he still sees the original words he wrote, completely glossing over the change until he jumps back in confusion as part two of the story no longer connects with the part one in his mind, and it takes him a moment to realise the original he is searching for has long been replaced and phased out.

After all, this is the reason writers have editors, mangakas have assistants, and script writers have proofreaders. All thanks to the fickle human brain, so obsessed with pattern recognition that it forgets there is nothing on this planet that does not change with time, even its own memory will become tainted with a rosy tint as it looks back upon the words of yesterday scribbled hurriedly onto a sheet of paper.

“Rakuen sparkling mineral water. The purest water collected from the Minami-Alps for your health and well-being, your doctor will thank you~ Love Aqua. Love Rakuen.” The advert finished. Its manufactured words expert at deceiving the Japanese consumer with the common lie that this bottled water is somehow healthier than tap water.

The man reached out and brought a nearby cup of coffee to his lips, taking a short sip all while his stare stayed steadfast on the script. Content with the beverage, he returned the cup to its spot and cleared his throat while readjusting his position on the black office chair.

A noise buzzed from the TV, another advert cycled onto the screen of this overly extended ad break for a program he had long stopped focusing on, now it only served as the background for his working mind as it shifted from port to starboard like a ship in a storm, ever debating yet never resolving.

His eyes may have been looking at the script, but not once were his thoughts on the characters before him. Even if he were blinded, he would see no less than he does in this moment, his mind’s eye occupied by the image of a stage in use.

Though perhaps it is not the stage that holds anchor for this ship of a thought, settled in the calmness of his peripheral, but instead the actors atop its deck, tall as a mast and every bit as essential in its driving force.

Miss Kaede Esumi.

She had been at Hanako Hall for a little over a year now. At first, he was worried her arrogance might stall her acting progress, that maybe she’d become trapped in the cycle of showing off her abilities in the now, that she’d forget to refine them for the tomorrow.

It ended up being an unfounded concern, her arrogance wasn’t arrogance at all, no pride or vanity to be seen, merely perfectly placed confidence and a drive to improve.

Except it wasn’t so much a drive, but a need. A ceaseless gluttony for growth, her desire for acting never once abated; continual and necessity. It didn’t so much consume her, as it became her.

He didn’t fully understand it, even with all his experience some things in this open field of acting were hidden from him. But he suspected it wasn’t a bad thing, it almost seemed to be therapeutic for her, an outlet, or a vast goal she held close to her heart.

It wasn’t his place to pry, nor was it his objective. He was a director, but more than that, he was a teacher. An almost humorous statement, a teacher who’s never really taught, yet it is also all he’s ever really achieved.

When he was gone, what would people remember about him? Sure, there might be a few articles that spoke well of his work, perhaps his plays would still be performed in the future once he was dead and buried, and maybe Hanako Hall would put a little plaque up for him by the front door, or near the stage if he were lucky.

But what would that truly mean? You cannot decode memories from brass, or paper, or code on an internet screen. They’re only ever experienced, and remembered; and all those other things are just things that help us maintain those memories.

His legacy, his true and real and genuine legacy… is quite simple.

It's the people he’ll leave behind, all those young faces he taught, and helped guide, and saw develop into adults who’ll either take the acting world by storm or settle down for a happy life.

So yes, he is a director, but somewhere along the line he realised he wasn’t quite suited to just be a director, and so he became a teacher too.

It's why he built Us of I around Miss Kaede Esumi, a role designed to show off her strengths as an actress and propel her into the next stage of her life. Everything has been tailored for the actors under him, those who want to step into this industry need every help they can get, and this is to be the debut for them.

Or at least for two of them, the rest are content to treat this as a hobby, some enjoyable routine to temporarily pull themselves out of the groan of the day-to-day mundane world.

And that was fine, and considering the nature of the entertainment industry, maybe it was even preferable. He couldn’t look down on them for it, everyone’s goals differ; some wish to conquer the world, others hope to live till tomorrow, and both tasks are equally impossible yet possible for all sorts of different reasons.

His hand gripped his pen, the front page of the script before him, lying neatly on the cold desk.

Us of I may have been built for Miss Kaede Esumi, but the act of building is an achievement in itself, which is precisely why he had Emiko do so much of it.

The script had his name listed on it as the writer, written in bold letters, and below that the position of co-writer had her name beside it, in equally as eye-catching characters.

Originally, Emiko was put down as an assistant, and that's what all the current script drafts the actors are using to practise have written on them. But he’d upgraded her to co-writer for the final script, the one that’ll be handed out behind the scenes to those in the business, whether it's for them to perform the play at other theatres, or simply to compare how the actors on stage played their characters to see if they’re worth investing in for other projects.

However, if the path he sees her going down is correct, it’ll be used to justify her scriptwriting ability, because, in truth, there is no one more capable of being a director than her.

Which is why he was currently debating his next action, the pen heavy in his hand, one cross to finalise the script before it’s sent out for printing, delivered to every person on his address list who sees the behind-the-scenes as the real show.

A slash right through his name, and the swap of the co-writer.

After all, those who want to step into this industry need every help they can get.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The door was suddenly opened and a young woman stepped in, her face full of stubborn resolve, yet tainted with shaky anxiety that rippled throughout her body. Her green eyes peered at him from behind black-framed glasses, and her twin braided black-matching hair lay down her back, only slightly frizzled from her erratic movement.

“Director Ttio, please give Seina another chance.”

And there she was, the girl he was just thinking about.

“Emiko-” He began slowly before she accidentally cut him off by diving into excuses.

“She’s just gotten out of hospital, she’d had an accident, her head wasn’t in the right place. She’s so much better than you saw- we’ve been practising, like you told me to. Today was a mistake, a lapse in judgement, please give her another chance.”

Those green eyes of hers were volatile in motion, yet steadfast and torrential in purpose, rapids not of water but of resolve. Peeking out through the lenses of those thick-framed glasses, he could see nothing but the gaze of another teacher staring back at him.

“I know she can do better, she’s an actress. Please don’t get rid of her.” Emiko finished, the wind slowly drifting out of her sails as the brazenness of her actions began to dawn on her, but that motive remained evermore.

Director Ttio cleared his throat, shattering the silence that had cropped from Emiko’s fidgety body language as she awaited his response. “Emiko, we’re less than five weeks away from the first performance. I would struggle to replace Seina even if I wanted to…” Her head perked up in anticipation, “And I do not.”

An audible breath of relief escaped Emiko’s lips, one which she quickly stifled to recompose herself. Now that her worry had been put to rest, she found herself a tad bit embarrassed of her rash behaviour, nevertheless, questions still blossomed within her mind.

“Why? Even though her acting was terrible? You still want to keep her on?” She asked carefully, hoping not to change his decision by accident yet requiring answers all the same.

“Do you think it was a terrible performance?” He asked back.

She looked at him confused, the obviousness of his question was striking, yet she searched for an answer she believed would satisfy him, “She went off-script, ignored the character’s personality and motives, everyone who knows the script could tell her acting went against the plot… the performance ended up at odds with the entire play, it wasn’t the worst, but it certainly wasn’t in line with any of the scenes before.”

“But was it a terrible performance?”

The roots of doubt began to sprout across her skin, Director Ttio did not ask foolish questions for no reason, he was leading her somewhere, dressing up a point in such a way that a present would have less wrapping.

“I- em, yes?” She struggled back, believing the question to already have been answered by her.

Though it was not, and she knew this, and he knew she knew this.

He was, after all was said and done, a teacher.

“What is the purpose of a stage, Emiko?”

And Emiko is his greatest student; a teacher teaching a student to be a teacher. Or better yet, to be a director.

“Emm… to act?”

The truth is, Emiko isn’t a talented actor, if she were to put her all into the role, her peak would be a level below even Hatsuko, though he would never tell her that so bluntly, but her talent lies not on the stage, but around it.

“So then, what is the purpose of acting?”

The behind-the-scenes, the writing, the managing, the mentoring and organising. He had noticed it soon after she first began coming here, how she spent extra time delving into the script and pointing out any mistakes, how she’d help people with getting into character, and with the way she made sure the background staff were willing and able to put their all in. A part of him expected that was the whole reason Hatsuko sent her here in the first place, she always had a good eye for these things, a perception few could match, and she must have known he’d notice her talent and help grow it, even if Emiko wasn’t aware of it herself.

“To perform?”

She wasn’t aware of his intentions, all those tasks and jobs he had her focus on, that he was pressing her not to become a star actress, but a star director. She had set her sights on becoming an actress for so long, that any word against it would likely cause an adverse reaction, but even she must realise by now that she’s woefully lacking compared to all her competitors. After all, if she weren’t, then she’d be an actor today, and not simply an ex-child actor trying to be one.

“Close enough… Now why do we perform?”

There was a cruelty to it, he knew that. But a teacher wants what's best for their students, and this is no different. Almost like a tree, talent must be pruned properly so that it may grow to its full potential, stylised with a slice and cut so that even in the courtyard of a millionaires’ manor does it fit in, or if lucky, seize the central position and shine.

“To tell a story?”

And he was a gardener, his hands weary with age, but they continue to tend the garden, water the plants, trim the shrubs, mow the lawn, and weed the green scapes. All so her talent can bloom into the prized flower it can be.

“No, we perform to entertain…”

Though, he does sometimes wonder to himself if this is the best course of action. As ultimately, who can say whether a well-tended garden adorned with bright roses and cultivated shrubs is better than an ancient and wild forest allowed to run free with its leaves and roots?

“Now, Emiko, tell me.” He continued, “Did her performance… entertain?”

Does consistency create talent? Or does talent create consistency? Will one always lead to the other, or is it best to guide someone to ensure it is reached? The garden left free will end up overgrown and rundown, beautiful to some, ugly to most, but the garden pristine and tended to will remain cherished by all even if the plants are moulded to a likeness.

“I- I mean maybe? It was off-script, and a lot of people noticed that and seemed… awkward? Because of it? I’m sorry, I’m a little lost.”

So what is better? To be the spectator and do nothing, to let the trees grow unhindered and leave it all to chance, or to be the gardener, and nurture the rose to assured grandeur.

“They appeared distressed because they knew the script. The audience, on the other hand, will not. The reactions you should have focused on were of those who never bothered to read the script, they’re as close as we can get to a genuine audience-” He paused, his aged yet sharp eyes taking in her pose, checking to see whether she was still listening; she was, “And they, Emiko, were entertained.”

He has made his choice, and she will soon make hers.

“Oh… I see. I think I get it now.” She replied, simply and with clarity. “Seina messed up the script, but that’s fixable, but if she weren’t entertaining… it wouldn’t be, at least not in five weeks, would it?”

He smiled, softly and proudly, “Correct.” That was all he needed to say.

Emiko straightened up and pushed her hair out of her eyes and to the side as her composure slipped back into her body.

“I’ll go over the script with her again, all the issues with her character, the improvements she could change, and bring her up to par so you never have to doubt her again.” She declared, the thought of failure foreign in her mind as it raced with ideas on how to better teach Seina, exactly why she slipped up and how to prevent it from happening again.

“I never doubted her.” Director Ttio stated, only slightly confused at the words used, but chalking it up to nerves.

“Right, yes.” Emiko quickly moved on, “We won’t fail again.”

And there it was once more, a glint in her eye that could only be attributed to a teacher. One who had planted their flagpole on the king-of-the-hill and would stop at nothing to achieve success for their pupil.

It was the look of a director wanting what's best for the stage, or perhaps of a mentor devoted to raising the student to a new height of acting, though maybe it was the drive of a writer desiring an accurate portrayal of the play they held a hand in creating.

But in all likelihood, it was Emiko’s sense of responsibility to see this task through to the end.

After all, she didn’t have to accept Director Ttio’s request to help Seina on that day, and there was never any reason to go as far as she did.

But she did.

Another reason why she was better suited to be a director than an actress.

With the conversation finished, Emiko exchanged a quick goodbye with Director Ttio, before hurrying herself out the door and leaving him all alone once more in that dark room lit by the little old TV on top of that metal set of cabinets in the corner.

His eyes gradually drifted back down to the script neatly set out atop the cold desk.

One cross to change a life, he could only hope it was for the better.

He took the pen up in his hand much like a knight would take up arms, brought it over his name, and pressed it down. The ink dripped into the paper, and his arm whipped to the side leaving a curved black line over his name.

And the name he wrote beside that black line?

It was Emiko’s.

The lead writer for Us of I.

And he would be listed as the co-writer.

It may seem like a minor change, and make no mistake it is. His name will still overshadow her’s without question, after all, she is unknown compared to a man with a well-established reputation within this entertainment world.

But that doesn’t really matter, as this swap of titles has nothing to do with the credit, but everything to do with the message it sends out to those in the know.

That message?

This here is my successor, and her name is…

Emiko Kiyohara

And that is worth so much more than anything else he could have given her. Her name placed on the map, and her foot is in the door. Now all she has to do is take the second step along this path.

To agree to be the garden instead of the forest.