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There is a man in the theater.
He is there whenever Amane is; she seems to be the only one who can see him. He is almost ethereal, gliding between actors and actresses and set-pieces like a snake, blue eyes hollow and absorbing the harsh spotlights. Whenever Amane tugs at Gozake’s sleeve or her mother’s hand to point him out, they tell her she’s seeing things. That she’s lying.
The wise one does not like liars.
Amane sees him every week, when she is forced to attend the plays. It is to keep up her family’s social image, if what Yuuri tells her mother is to be believed. She finds it a bit arbitrary, but she does not question it, if only because she is curious to meet the ghost-man on the stage.
Today, the ghost-man is more opaque. It’s slight, barely any difference, but for a moment Amane believes she locks eyes with him, staring into those deep pools of blue that hide grief and pain behind them. “Hello, mister,” she whispers, quietly as to not alert Gozake or her mother. “You look sad. You should ask the wise one for guidance.” The man looks at her-no, looks through her, and then vanishes just as Juliet stabs herself with the sword and a startled hush falls upon the theater. It is the same event that happens in every performance, yet they act like it is new and revolutionary. Amane doesn’t understand.
She wonders if the ghost-man likes Romeo and Juliet. She wonders if there is even a way to find out.
The next time she goes, he is nearly solidified. However, he does not move as he usually does; he places himself at the side of the stage and watches with those same sad eyes he always does. They make eye contact again, and he utters a single word before vanishing again. “Icarus.”
Amane has heard the tale of Icarus. He flew too close to the Sun, his wings burned, and he fell to his death. Her mother told her a story similar to his when she was a baby, with a few distinctions. She doesn’t know what this has to do with the man in the theater, but she will find out. She is determined.
Curiosity killed the cat, her mother’s voice says in her head. Amane ignores it, for the first time.
The next time she is at the theater, he is not there at all. However, his presence still fills the room, like a mist settling over a dense forest. Amane misses him. She is so used to routines in her daily life, but this is the one constant she has come to truly appreciate.
She wonders if it is possible to miss someone she does not know.
Sunday arrives again and he’s here. He sings with the lead of the play, shares in her sorrows and joys. There’s a deep melancholy in his tone, one that carries a thousand memories.
When the play ends, her mother departs to speak with some woman Amane has never seen. She takes the opportunity to climb onto the now empty stage. “Are you here?” She does not expect a response, but a rustling occurs faintly behind the velvet curtain.
“Always.” His voice is just as deep when he speaks as it is when he sings. “You’re the girl that sees me.”
Amane nods. “Why is that?”
“I’ve no idea,” he says. “but it is odd.” She wonders if she is the only one who has seen him. She does not ask. Instead, she asks for his name. “Not a clue on that either. Sorry.”
“It’s alright. Do you remember anything from when you were alive?” He stares at her with those blue eyes again. “… were you alive? I was under the assumption that you were some kind of ghost.”
“Maybe I was. Who knows at this point?” the man chuckles, the happiest Amane has ever seen him. “Everything blends together.”
“Why do you haunt this place?” she wonders.
“Nowhere else to go. I’m kinda tied to this theater.” replies the spirit-for that’s what he is, whether he is a “ghost” or not-as he adjusts a spotlight. “Made a lot of bad decisions.”
“Like what?” Amane asks again, ever curious.
“I dreamed.” he sighs. “I dreamed of a life and happiness and stability. Never dream, Amane, it’s not worth it. Don’t get greedy.”
“It is not greedy to want.” she tells him. He shakes his head, placing a hand atop hers. It is fatherly and kind and genuine in a way that Amane is not sure how to respond to, so she stands rigid.
“That’s what they’ll tell you, but I don’t think it’s true. It takes a damn long time to work for just the smallest smidge of light in your life, and by the time you do you’ve crushed a million other dreams just to get there. Icarus should have clipped his own wings to make his fall easier. Icarus was a fool.”
“That does not sound foolish to me. That sounds like dedication,” she says, but he is gone and the only evidence that he was ever there is a single feather on the ground. She places it into her backpack just as her mother calls for her and they leave.
She does not return to the theater the next weekend. The next six days of her life are tumultuous and they end with her hands bloodstained and before she knows it she is in a small prison cell and a young teenaged warden is peering in at her. She prays to the wise one every day. She apologizes. She makes things right.
She sees him. “Icarus,” she says, and he looks at her and smiles.
“Mukuhara Kazui.” he tells her, blue eyes finally alight with the knowledge of his name.
“Momose Amane.” she returns, nodding at him respectfully. “Do you dare to dream?”
He smiles sadly at her. “I did.”
She wonders, in that small prison cell, if he will ever know peace. She wonders, praying to the wise one, what, or who, made him adopt his skewed view on his dreams. She wonders, as she approaches the extraction machine, how he has become human.
She wonders, during those lonely nights, if he would like to write a play for the theater with her, a retelling of Icarus’ myth.