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Have you ever been to Manhattan?
It’s a place that shares my name… I’ve never been there myself, though…
…
Visiting Manhattan, covered in a blanket of snow… That’s a little dream of mine…
I want to see it for myself, just once… I’d try one of those non-alcoholic fizz cocktails, and spot celebrities from afar…
Don’t worry… Even if I were right next to them, there’s no way anyone would notice me staring.
I’ve always been told I don’t have much of a presence. No one would know I was there…
No one at all…
“A full moon on a Christmas night, huh? You don’t see that every day.”
Rie Ifuji’s footsteps crunched through the snow. The cold had already worked its way through her coat—not the sharp bite of Hokkaido winters, but something damper. The kind that got into your joints and stayed there.
They crossed into Columbus Circle, where the holiday decorations had been turned up to a frequency that didn’t exist back home. Storefront windows blazed with enough wattage to destroy night vision. Inflatable Santas the size of small apartments sagged against brick facades. Someone had strung lights across every available surface—railings, scaffolding, the skeletal trees lining the sidewalk—until the whole block looked like it had been dipped in electrical current. Cars sat buried under fresh powder, their shapes softened into anonymous lumps. A few still had their wipers up, frozen mid-arc
In Tokyo, Christmas meant KFC and illuminations.
But not in America. Here, it sprawled.
Every corner had a competing display, every shop window a different vision of excess. Even the hot dog carts had tinsel.
Ifuji pulled her coat tighter. “Okay, is it just me, or has it gotten really chilly here all of a sudden?”
Manhattan Cafe walked a half-step behind, hands in the pockets of a wool peacoat that looked like it had been sourced from a local’s closet. Her scarf was wrapped correctly—loose enough to breathe, tight enough to seal out the wind. She moved with a quiet, spectral grace, practically invisible against the gray stone of the city.
“Perhaps it’s… because of your outfit,” Cafe said, her voice barely rising above the muffled hum of a distant snowplow.
Ifuji looked down at her ensemble. It was a stunning vintage bouclé jacket in creamy ivory, paired with a matching skirt and sheer black tights. It was an outfit that said ‘High Fashion Editorial.’ Unfortunately, it also said ‘Zero Thermal Retention.’
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” she asked, her teeth giving a traitorous little click as the wind whistled through the circle. “I thought the beret pulled it all together.”
“I wasn’t implying anything negative,” Cafe replied, her gaze shifting to a point about three inches to the left of Ifuji’s shoulder. She watched the empty air for a moment before a ghost of a shadow flickered across her expression. “In fact… my friend says you look great in it… She also said your knees are starting to turn blue.”
“Yeah, well,” Ifuji let out a short, puffing laugh that turned into a cloud of steam, her braces catching the neon glow of a nearby sign. “Aesthetics don’t really mean much when the humidity’s trying to turn me into slush. But hey, if I do freeze to death, I’ll at least look good for the coroner.”
“Don’t worry,” Cafe said. She stepped a fraction closer, narrowing the gap between them. “Umamusume… we run warmer than most. If you start to feel cold… you can always come to me. I don’t mind being a heater.”
Ifuji’s smile softened into something more genuine, less performative.
“I’ll hold you to that, Cafe.”
They rounded the corner into the Holiday Market. Usually, this place was a mosh pit of tourists and overpriced cider, but tonight, the heavy snowfall had acted like a natural velvet curtain, muffling the city’s roar.
“You know,” Ifuji said, looking around at the rows of wooden stalls topped with white-dusted canopies. “I was fully expecting this place to be packed to the rafters… but it’s actually pretty laid-back here. It’s almost like we have the whole city to ourselves.”
Cafe watched a group of tourists walk right past them, their eyes sliding over her dark coat and still form as if she were just another shadow cast by the stalls. She felt that familiar, hollow comfort—the safety of being invisible.
“It’s the snow,” Cafe whispered, her hand tightening almost imperceptibly on the strap of her bag. “People go inside when it gets like this. They seek the light. They leave the rest… for us. It makes it easier to… disappear.”
“Well don’t disappear too much. You and I still got some shopping to do. Look—over there!”
Cafe followed the direction of Ifuji’s gloved finger.
Nestled between a vendor selling oversized pretzels and a booth dedicated entirely to alpaca wool socks, a small stall shimmered under the halogen work lights. The banner overhead, snapping violently in the wind, read HISTORY IN YOUR HANDS: VINTAGE COIN JEWELRY.
It wasn’t the flashy, diamond-encrusted display one might expect near Fifth Avenue. It was rougher, more tactile.
As they approached, the smell of roasted chestnuts from a neighboring cart drifted over. The table was lined with velvet trays, each displaying silver coins that had been hollowed out. Liberty heads and eagles had been carved away, leaving only delicate, filigreed skeletons of silver dollars and quarters.
“Whoa,” Ifuji breathed, leaning over the display until her nose was dangerously close to touching the glass case. She adjusted her glasses, the lenses fogging instantly. “Okay, that is genuinely cool. I mean look at the detail on that mercury dime. You can see the year—1942.”
Cafe hovered at the edge of the stall’s light. To her, the jewelry looked less like accessories and more like talismans. Cold, old metal that had passed through thousands of hands, carrying thousands of tiny histories.
“See anything that speaks to you?” Ifuji asked, straightening up. “You could totally snag some to bring back home. I’m sure your friends would lose their minds.”
Cafe’s gaze drifted over the rows of silver.
“Tachyon would likely try to melt it down to test the silver purity,” Cafe murmured, her voice flat but betraying the subtle curve in her lips. She traced a finger over the glass above a chaotic, jaggedly cut quarter. “And Pocket… She would probably lose it within the hour. Or swallow it on a dare.”
“Exactly! It’s perfect,” Ifuji beamed, clapping her hands together. “Gifts with character. Come on, Cafe. It’s New York. You can’t go home empty-handed. Well, unless you want everyone back home to think all we did was freeze in Central Park.”
Cafe hesitated. The vendor, a bearded man wrapped in three layers of flannel, looked up at them. He didn’t seem to notice the odd way Cafe stood, or the fact that she was glancing at the empty space beside her as if waiting for permission.
She slowly withdrew a hand from her coat and pointed a slender finger at two distinct pieces. One was a pendant cut from a Walking Liberty half-dollar, graceful and intricate. The other was a chaotic, punchy design made from a Buffalo nickel.
“Those two,” Cafe said softly to the vendor. Then, she turned her head slightly to the left, addressing the empty air. “And… no, I don’t think they sell one made of bones. Please stop asking.”
Ifuji didn’t even blink. She just grinned, fishing for her wallet. “Great choice. I’ll get these, you get the hot chocolate. Deal?”
“I… I can pay,” Cafe protested weakly, shrinking back into her scarf.
“Oh, bah humbug! Consider it a bonus for not letting me freeze to death back there.” Ifuji winked, though her teeth chattered as she did. “Now set forth—for the fate of our souls rests wholly in your hands.”
She turned to the vendor, her posture shifting from shivering tourist to confident professional in the blink of an eye.
“[Hi there,]” Ifuji said, her English polished and precise. She pointed at the display case. “[Could I please get the Liberty half-dollar and the Buffalo nickel? And… actually—could you wrap them separately? They’re going to two very different people.]”
The vendor, a burly man whose beard was dusted with real snowflakes, blinked before breaking into a wide, toothy grin.
“[Sure thing, ma’am. You got a good eye. Those are the best pieces on the table.]”
As the transaction began, Cafe quietly unmoored herself from Ifuji’s side.
Without the trainer’s bright, chaotic energy acting as a shield, the world immediately felt sharper. The lights of the market seemed to glare rather than glow. Cafe pulled her scarf up over her nose, reducing her face to a pair of golden eyes and a sweep of dark hair, and turned toward the scent of sugar and steam.
A hand-painted sign in the shape of a gingerbread man pointed the way: DELICIOUS BAKED GOODS & HOT DRINKS.
Cafe moved through the crowd with spectral grace. She didn’t weave around people so much as flow through the gaps they left behind, a shadow slipping between solid bodies. To her left, a child dropped a mitten; Cafe scooped it up and placed it back in the stroller’s basket without breaking stride, vanishing before the mother even looked down.
“It’s just water vapor,” Cafe murmured into her scarf, her breath misting against the wool. “Behave.”
She arrived at the concession stand, a rustic wooden hut radiating heat like a blast furnace. The menu was a chalkboard nightmare of options: Peppermint Mocha, Eggnog Latte, Spiced Cider, Frozen Hot Chocolate (which Cafe found conceptually offensive given the temperature).
She stepped up to the counter. Behind the register stood an Umamusume—young, maybe junior-year, with a Santa hat listing over one ear and the glazed expression of someone three hours into a shift that refused to end.
“[Um…]” Cafe started, her voice soft, barely audible over the hum of the espresso machine.
The girl leaned forward, cupping an ear. “[What’s that? Can’t hear you, hon. What can I get’cha?]”
Cafe's eyes skimmed the chalkboard menu. Coffee, her usual anchor, sat there in neat script. Dark roast. Americano. Cold brew. But she thought of Ifuji, currently vibrating with cold a few stalls away.
“[Two… hot chocolates,]” Cafe said, forcing the words out with surprising clarity. “[Please. The… The largest size you have.]”
The girl popped a bubble of gum, her tail flicking once against the back counter. "[Two 'Everest-Size' cocoas. You want the works? Whipped cream, marshmallows, candy cane dust?]"
Cafe stared. The works? As in a job?
“[…Yes. Everything.]”
A minute later, Cafe was handed two cups that were less “beverages” and more “sugary buckets.” They were warm, topped with a mountain of whipped cream that defied gravity. The heat radiating through the cardboard sleeves seeped into her frozen palms.
She turned back toward the jewelry stall, navigating the crush of holiday shoppers with her prizes held high. Eventually, she spotted Ifuji near a railing, where an empty stage sat. Even from here, Cafe could see her trainer shivering.
She quickened her pace, balancing the cardboard monoliths as she wove through a tour group of elves taking selfies. She reached the railing where Ifuji was currently doing a subtle, hopping dance—mostly to keep warm.
“There you are,” Ifuji exhaled, her breath pluming in the frigid air. She practically rescued the cup, wrapping both gloved hands around the cardboard sleeve as if it were a tiny, dying fire. “Oh god. Oh, that is heavy. That is wonderful.”
She took a tentative sip, risking a tongue burn for the sake of thermal survival. A dollop of whipped cream immediately transferred itself onto the tip of her nose.
“It’s… good,” Ifuji mumbled, eyes fluttering shut as the sugar and heat hit her bloodstream. “I can feel my toes again… I think.”
Cafe watched her, a small, rare smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She took a sip of her own drink, the rich chocolate chasing away the chill. For a moment, they just stood there, two silhouettes against the blazing backdrop of Columbus Circle. The snow was falling harder now, dusting Ifuji’s beret and settling into the dark valleys of Cafe’s hair.
“Oh, by the way,” Ifuji said suddenly. She shifted her cup to the crook of her arm and began digging into her oversized tote bag with her free hand. “I didn’t just stand here turning into an ice sculpture while you were gone. I saw a booth a couple down from the coin guy—glassblowers from Vermont.”
She fished out a small, square box wrapped in tissue paper and flipped the lid open with a flick of her thumb.
“I got something for Dantsu, too. Look at this—isn’t it cute?”
Nestled inside the tissue was a glass ornament: a heavy, hand-blown apple, but the glass was swirled with a deep, furious crimson that seemed to glow from within. It caught the reflection of the holiday lights, refracting them into a hundred tiny sparks.
“It’s… intense,” Cafe murmured, leaning in.
“Right?” Ifuji grinned, wiping the whipped cream off her nose with the back of her glove. “It’s not just red—it’s passionate red. I figured she could hang it in her room. A little piece of the Big Apple. Besides, I didn’t want her to feel left out just because the mad scientist and the screamer got cool coins.”
“She will cherish it,” Cafe said softly. Then, her eyes shifted slightly to the empty air beside Ifuji’s elbow. She listened for a heartbeat, then nodded. “And… my friend says it’s very shiny. She wants to know if it tastes like apples.”
Ifuji laughed, the sound cutting through the muffled quiet of the snow. “Tell them it tastes like American healthcare bills, so… please don’t lick it.”
“I’ll relay the message,” Cafe deadpanned.
“All right, let’s finish up,” Ifuji commanded, taking another massive swig of her cocoa. “We still have a few more stops. I promised I’d take a picture of you in front of the tree at Rockefeller Center, and I am not leaving until we get one where you aren’t actively trying to blend into a planter.”
Cafe sighed, her breath misting against the dark wool of her coat. She looked at the wooden platform raised slightly above the slush.
“What about the stage?”
Ifuji turned, her boots crunching on a patch of salted ice. There was a group of people on the platform—four men and women in matching red-and-green scarves, currently tangling themselves in XLR cables and microphone stands.
“What,” Ifuji asked, raising an eyebrow behind her fogged glasses, “you wanna watch the caroling squad? I didn’t take you for a fan of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’. Had you pegged as more of a 1975 girl.”
“Not to watch,” Cafe murmured. “To… listen. My friend says the acoustics here are… hollow. Like a cathedral without walls. She wants to hear it filled.”
Ifuji smiled, though her teeth gave a little involuntary chatter.
“Guess I’m outnumbered two to one here… All right. We can stay. Doubt the Rockefeller tree’s gonna be going anywhere anyway.”
Cafe offered a small, appreciative nod, her hands still clutching the warmth of the massive cocoa cup. “Thank you.”
“Hey, don’t mention it,” Ifuji said, watching the singers organize their sheet music. The snow was beautiful, the cocoa was hot, and for once, nothing was on fire. “Honestly, this is your day. You earned every second of this trip. I’m just the luggage carrier.”
She took a confident sip of chocolate, her glasses steaming up slightly.
“Besides. I was just thinking about how smoothly everything has gone. We haven’t gotten lost, I haven’t lost my passport, and we haven’t run into a single major problem!”
THWACK!
It was a wet, heavy sound—the distinct acoustic signature of a human body meeting a salted wooden plank. This was immediately followed by the screech of a microphone feeding back, the clatter of a falling stand, and a very un-festive shout of pain.
Cafe’s eyes widened, her gaze darting to the invisible friend beside her as if to ask, Did you do that?
Ifuji froze, the cup halfway to her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut for a singular, painful second.
“Me and my big mouth,” she whispered into the steam.
Before Cafe could even blink, Ifuji had handed her the cocoa cup. “Hold this. Don’t drink it all.”
In a motion that betrayed both her profession and clothing, Ifuji vaulted over the low railing separating the crowd from the stage. She didn’t stumble—the clumsy tourist vanished, replaced instantly by the woman who managed the physical condition of elite athletes for a living.
She landed on the stage with a solid thud and knelt beside the fallen singer—a young man in a festive sweater that was perhaps a size too tight. He was clutching his left leg, his face scrunched up in agony.
“[Hey! You all right! Don’t try to stand up yet,]” Ifuji said.
The other three singers were hovering uselessly, clutching their binders and looking panicked.
“[I freakin’ slipped!]” the man groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “[There’s ice under the mat! I knew it! I told Clarisse that mat was a death trap!]”
“[Okay, okay—deep breaths,]” Ifuji said, her hands already moving to gently probe his ankle. “[I’m a trainer. Sports medicine. Let me take a look.]”
The man, whose nametag read NEAL P., blinked at her through his pain. He seemed confused that a woman dressed like a high-fashion marshmallow had just dropped from the sky to triage him.
“[It… it throbs,]” Neal wheezed. “[Is it broken? Will I ever dance again? Not that I dance now, but I’d like the option to!]”
“[It’s not broken, Neal,]” Ifuji said, her tone brisk and reassuring. “[But that’s a Grade 2 sprain if I’ve ever seen one. You’re done for the night… Unless you want to sing while I carry you fireman-style?]”
Neal slumped back against the stage monitor, looking more devastated by the prognosis than the pain. “[Great. Just great… We’re supposed to go on in three minutes. We can’t do the four-part harmony with three people! The alto section is weak, they can’t carry the bridge alone!]”
A woman with a reindeer scarf around her neck, presumably Clarisse, threw her hands up. “[Seriously, Neal? You’re worried about the bridge? Ugh, look at you—your aunt is gonna kill us if she hears about this!]”
Ifuji stood up, brushing snow off her knees. She looked back at Cafe, who was standing by the railing, holding two giant hot chocolates and looking like she wanted to merge with a decorative wreath to escape the sudden attention.
She turned back to the choir, an idea forming behind her glasses.
It was a chaotic idea. A possibly terrible idea.
But the Ifuji name was built off of terrible ideas.
“[So…]” Ifuji started, fixing her glasses. “[You’re saying you need a fourth voice? Someone who can carry a low harmony?]”
Neal looked up from the ground. “[Yeah. Someone with range. Doesn’t even have to be a guy… But unless you have a spare baritone in your purse, I’m afraid we’re gonna have to cancel the show.]”
Ifuji grinned. It was the same grin she wore when she signed Cafe up for a race everyone said she couldn’t win.
“[I don’t exactly have a baritone,]” Ifuji said, resting a gloved finger on her chin. “[But I do have an idea… Wait here.]”
Cafe froze. The invisible friend seemed to stop whispering.
Ifuji walked back to the railing, her boots crunching softly on the snow. She didn’t vault back over; she walked around the long way to the stairs and came down to the pavement, respecting the barrier between the stage and the shadows where Cafe felt safe.
She stopped a foot away, entering Cafe’s personal orbit without crashing into it. Ifuji looked flushed—partly from the cold, partly from the adrenaline of triage—but her eyes behind the glasses were calm.
“You hear all that?” Ifuji asked softly.
Cafe nodded, the movement barely ruffling her scarf. She gripped the two cardboard cups like they were anchors keeping her tethered to the ground.
“The man… Neal. He can’t walk.”
“Yeah. Ankle’s the size of a grapefruit,” Ifuji confirmed, keeping her voice low, an intimate frequency beneath the holiday noise. “He’s out. And without a fourth, they’re thinking of packing it in. Apparently, the arrangement falls apart without a low harmony to anchor it.”
She paused, exhaling a cloud of steam that drifted up toward the strings of lights. She didn’t look at Cafe; she looked at the stage, where the three remaining singers were dejectedly coiling cables, their shoulders slumped in that universal posture of disappointment.
“I didn’t volunteer you,” Ifuji said, turning back to face her. “I want you to know that… I told them I might know someone who could help, but that she’s very particular about her acoustics.”
Cafe looked down at her boots. The stage was bright. It was elevated. It was everything she avoided.
“They are… strangers,” Cafe whispered. “I… don’t know their song.”
“I saw the sheet music, Cafe. You know it. I’ve heard you humming that in the office when you think I’m asleep,” Ifuji countered gently. She reached out to rest a hand lightly on the railing beside her.
“And you’re right, they are strangers… But they’re strangers who are having a really crappy night. They’ve been practicing for weeks, and now they’re going to have to go home because of a patch of ice.”
Cafe’s gaze drifted past Ifuji to the stage. Neal was sitting on a monitor, looking miserable. A woman with a pitch pipe looked like she was about to cry.
Ifuji watched Cafe’s face, reading the micro-expressions she had spent three years memorizing. She saw the fear, yes. But she also saw the itch—the nagging refusal to walk away from someone who needed help.
“Look, here’s the deal,” Ifuji said, leaning in slightly. “You don’t have to stand in the front. You don’t have to introduce yourself. You don’t have to smile at the crowd. There’s a spot right behind the mic stand, in the back. The lighting is terrible there. Practically a black hole.”
She smiled—a small, crooked expression that highlighted her braces.
“You could be a ghost, Cafe. Just a voice from the dark. You fix the harmony, you save the set, and then we disappear to get dinner. No interviews, no autographs.”
Cafe shifted her weight. The wind bit at her cheeks.
“And if I say no?” Cafe asked, her voice barely audible.
“Then we walk,” Ifuji said instantly. She straightened up, checking her watch. “There’s a ramen place on 52nd that stays open pretty late. We go there, we thaw out, and we forget this ever happened… I’m not your trainer right now, Cafe. I’m just a friend holding the cocoa. It’s your call.”
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant wail of a siren and the chatter of tourists.
Cafe looked at the empty space beside her shoulder.
The silence is loud. It hurts.
Cafe frowned slightly. It hurts.
She looked at the singers again. They were defeated. The magic of the night—the very thing she had been enjoying, the quiet reverence of the snow—was being soured by their disappointment.
She could stay comfortable, or she could stop the hurt.
Cafe let out a long, shuddering sigh, the kind that emptied her lungs completely.
“Hold these,” she murmured.
Ifuji blinked before scrambling to accept the two giant cups of cocoa that were thrust toward her.
“Wait really.”
Cafe didn’t answer. She adjusted her scarf, pulling it tighter until it obscured her chin and mouth, leaving only her eyes visible. She buttoned her peacoat all the way to the top. She looked less like a performer preparing for a show and more like a cat preparing to dash through a sprinkler.
“The lighting…” Cafe said, her voice muffled by the wool. “You said it’s… terrible?”
“Oh—atrocious,” Ifuji promised, a beam of pride breaking across her face. “Worst I’ve ever seen. You’ll be invisible.”
Cafe nodded once.
“Keep my cocoa warm.”
Then, moving with that unnerving, silent grace, she slipped past Ifuji. She didn’t walk up the stairs, she materialized on the stage, stepping out of the gloom and into the periphery of the choir’s confusion.
Clarisse jumped a foot in the air.
“[Oh! I didn’t see you there, miss—?]”
Cafe didn’t make eye contact. She walked past the main microphones, past the center stage, and positioned herself in the back corner, exactly where the shadow of a lighting rig cut a sharp diagonal across the floorboards. She stood halfway behind a pillar.
She gave a tiny, stiff nod to the pianist.
From the pavement, Ifuji watched, holding a cocoa cup in each hand like a proud, overloaded parent.
“[She’s shy!]” Ifuji called out to the baffled singers, her voice cheerful. “[But she’s got the range! Just start playing, trust me!]”
Clarisse looked at Neal, who shrugged from his seated position on the floor, then looked back at the strange, shadowy girl in the expensive coat who was currently trying to merge with a support beam.
“[Okay…]” Clarisse stammered. “[Key of B flat. Watch the piano for chord changes…]”
The piano began—a gentle, rolling intro to Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. The three remaining carolers took a breath.
Cafe closed her eyes. She felt the stare of the crowd, the brightness of the lights, the overwhelming presence of the city. It made her skin crawl. But then she listened to the empty space in the music, the hole where the low harmony was supposed to be.
And Manhattan Cafe opened her mouth.
The sound that came out wasn’t loud. It wasn’t the belting power of a main character. It was a rich, velvety shadow—a contralto so deep and smooth it felt like obsidian. It slid underneath the lead melody, lifting them up, grounding the song, giving it a haunting, ethereal weight.
Ifuji, standing in the snow, felt the hair on her arms stand up. She clutched the cups tighter, her smile fading into a look of pure, quiet awe.
“She’s pretty cool, huh?” she whispered to no one corporeal.
She watched as the other singers on stage stiffened. Clarisse’s eyes widened, darting toward the shadowy pillar behind the mic stand. She realized suddenly that she didn’t have to push so hard; the floor beneath her voice was solid now. The choir relaxed. The tension in their shoulders dropped.
Cafe remained a silhouette. She wasn’t looking at the audience. Her head was tilted slightly to the side, her eyes half-closed as if she were listening to a frequency no one else could hear.
Ifuji tore her eyes away from the stage to look around.
The plaza had been a chaotic transit zone of tourists rushing to dinner and locals dodging slush puddles. But now, the movement was slowing. Friction was taking hold.
A couple arguing over a map near a pretzel cart went silent, their breath pluming together as they turned toward the stage. A security guard, looking bored and frozen near the tree, stopped tapping his foot and tipped his head back, letting the harmony wash over him. A group of teenagers who had been loudly filming an UmaTok lowered their phones, the ring light reflecting in their eyes as the haunting, low timber of Cafe’s voice anchored the soaring soprano line.
“Through the years we all will be together… if the fates allow…”
Cafe receded further into the gloom. But her voice expanded. It was a mournful, beautiful ache that cut through the superficial cheer of the holiday lights. It sounded like the feeling of missing someone you’ve never met.
Ifuji saw a woman in a fur coat near the front wipe the corner of her eye. She saw the vendor from the jewelry stall leaning over his counter, the wind flapping his banner unnoticed.
For three minutes, the center of New York City—the loudest, fastest place on earth—held its breath.
And Cafe… she looked at peace. Hidden by the dark, shielded by the voices of strangers, she was free. She traced a pattern on the pillar with her thumb, singing a lullaby to the ghosts of the city.
“And have yourself a merry little Christmas now…”
The final chord resolved, a perfect, shimmering blend of four voices that hung in the frozen air long after the piano damper fell.
For a heartbeat, there was total silence. The kind of silence that felt heavy like a blanket.
Then, the applause broke. It wasn’t polite golf claps, but a sudden, roaring wave of approval. People cheered, gloved hands clapping furiously. Clarisse and the other two singers beamed, stepping forward to bow, flushed with the relief and the high of a performance saved.
“[And give it up for our—]” Clarisse turned to the back corner, gesturing wildly to the shadow. “[Our guest!]”
But the corner was empty.
Ifuji blinked. She looked left, then right.
There was a soft crunch of snow beside her.
“Here.”
Ifuji jumped, nearly bobbling the hot chocolates. Cafe was standing right next to her, scarf pulled back up over her nose. She had moved with the speed of a startled deer, vaulting off the back of the stage and merging with the crowd before the first clap had finished echoing.
“Jesus, Cafe!” Ifuji laughed, a breathless sound of relief. “You’d think I’d get used to that by now.”
Cafe didn’t look at the stage, where the singers were now looking around in confusion for their savior. She just stared at the two cups in Ifuji’s hands.
“My cocoa,” Cafe murmured, her voice muffled by the wool. “Is it still warm?”
Ifuji looked at the girl—this terrified, wonderful, powerhouse of a girl who had just captivated half of Manhattan and then run away because she didn’t want to take a bow.
“Yeah,” Ifuji said softly, handing the cup back. “It’s still warm.”
Cafe took the cup with both hands, the heat seeping through the cardboard and into her gloves. She looked at the empty space beside Ifuji, her golden eyes softening. The crowd had dispersed, the magic moment dissolving back into the reality of a freezing New York night.
“[Holy smokes, guys!]” Neal’s voice cracked through the air. “[That was… that was unbelievable!]”
The two of them turned. Neal was hobbling toward them with a gait that made Ifuji wince, his arm draped over Clarisse’s shoulder for support. He looked like a man who had just seen a miracle, though his face was currently a mask of pain.
Ifuji’s instincts overrode her exhaustion instantly. She rushed to his side, hands out to intercept him like he was about to bolt on a bad tendon.
“[Woah, woah—easy there, big guy!]” Ifuji commanded, sliding under his free arm to take his weight. “[You gotta rest up before you can move around! That ankle isn’t going to heal on gratitude alone!]”
“[I know, but I just had to thank her!]” Neal gasped, wincing as his foot grazed the pavement. He looked past Ifuji to where Cafe stood, half-hidden by a streetlamp. “[Miss…! I didn’t even catch your name but that was… I mean I’ve never heard a harmony like that before. You sure saved our hides!]”
Cafe shrank back slightly, pulling her scarf up until it touched her eyelashes. She offered a tiny nod.
“[We were just doing what we could,]” Ifuji said, answering for her charge while guiding Neal toward a nearby bench. “[But seriously, you need some ice. And elevation. And probably an X-ray just to be safe.]”
“[NEAL!]”
The shout cut through the ambient noise of Rockefeller Center like a diamond cutter through glass. It was a voice that defied the laws of physics—high, twangy, impossibly bright, and carrying a distinct Southern lilt that had no business existing in a Manhattan winter.
Ifuji turned her head just in time to see a small tornado of blonde hair and rhinestones descend upon them.
“[Oh, Lord have mercy, Neal! I got here as fast as I could!]”
The woman who burst into their circle was tiny—shorter than Ifuji, shorter even than Cafe—but she arrived with the gravitational pull of a planet. She was wrapped in a white faux-fur coat that looked soft enough to sleep on, and despite the treacherous slush, she was navigating the pavement in high-heeled boots with the agility of a mountain goat.
She skidded to a halt in front of the bench, breathless, her hands fluttering in the air.
“[The traffic on 6th was absolutely biblical!]” the woman exclaimed, her voice a rapid-fire melody. “[I thought I was gonna have to get out and walk, but then I saw the text about your ankle and—oh, honey, look at you!]”
Ifuji blinked, staring.
The woman was… spectacular. Even under a knitted white cap, her hair was teased to the heavens, defying both gravity and the humidity. Her makeup was immaculate—lashes that could create a breeze, lips a perfect shade of pink, and skin that seemed to have its own lighting crew.
It was a face Ifuji felt she should know. It had that distinct, polished quality of someone who lived inside a television screen. A face that belonged on a billboard, or a stage, or perhaps on the side of a lunchbox. Ifuji racked her brain—was she a local news anchor? A Broadway star? A very glamorous soap opera actress?
She wasn't the only one staring. A distinct ripple had moved through the immediate crowd—the specific, electric silence of New Yorkers realizing they were in the presence of greatness. A couple near the railing froze mid-selfie. A security guard straightened his posture and tipped his cap. Someone in the back whispered a name with the reverence usually reserved for religious figures.
“[I’m real sorry, Auntie,]” Neal mumbled, looking properly chastised. “[I slipped on the ice. But… but we didn’t cancel! These two—]” He gestured to Ifuji and the shadowed Cafe. “[They saved the set. That girl over there sang the baritone line!]”
The woman spun around on her heels, her coat swishing dramatically. Her blue eyes, bright and sparkling with an energy that felt almost nuclear, locked onto Ifuji.
“[Well, bless your hearts!]” she cried, clasping her gloved hands together. “[You stepped in for my clumsy nephew? On Christmas?]”
Ifuji straightened up, adjusting her glasses. She was usually good with people, but this woman’s energy was like staring directly into the sun.
“[It was… really no trouble, ma’am,]” Ifuji said, her English polite but slightly stunned. “[I’m a trainer. I just… assessed the situation. My friend here did the heavy lifting.]”
The woman turned her beaming smile toward Cafe.
Cafe stood a few feet away, clutching her cocoa. Usually, when strangers looked at her, Cafe saw judgment, or curiosity, or nothing at all.
But as this woman looked at her, Cafe’s eyes widened. She didn’t retreat. instead, she blinked. Once. Twice.
To anyone else, the woman was just a frantic, glamorous relative. But to Cafe, whose world was populated by things unseen, the woman was vibrating. She didn’t just have a presence, she had a glow—a warm, overwhelming aura of kindness that seemed to push back the dark.
“[Well, aren’t you just a little angel in a peacoat,]” the woman cooed, taking a step toward Cafe but stopping respectfully at the edge of Cafe’s personal bubble. “[Neal says you have a voice like a gift… Thank you. Thank you for helping him.]”
Cafe lowered her scarf an inch. She stared at the woman, fascinated.
“[You…]” Cafe whispered, her voice barely carrying over the wind. “[You are… loud. But… warm.]”
Ifuji grimaced, but the woman just threw her head back and laughed. It was a famous laugh—a high, trilling sound that Ifuji swore she had heard on a radio in a konbini once.
“[Honey, I’ve been loud since 1946 and I ain’t plan on stoppin’ now!]” the woman beamed. She reached into her massive, sparkly purse. “[Now, I don’t have my checkbook, and Neal’s leg here looks like a balloon and we gotta scoot to the ER, but—here.]”
She pulled out a handful of wrapped hard candies and what looked like a backstage pass laminate, shoving them into Cafe and Ifuji’s hands before she could protest.
“[You come see a show if you’re ever in Nashville, you hear? On the house!]”
She pivoted back to Neal, effortlessly hauling the grown man up with deceptive strength. “[Come on, sugar. Let’s get that ankle looked at before your mama finds out and skins us both.]”
As the black town car idled at the curb, its exhaust puffing white clouds into the orange hazard lights.
“[Wait!]” Ifuji called out, jogging a few steps toward the open rear door.
The tiny woman paused, one foot already inside the plush interior. She turned back, the streetlamp catching the sequins on her collar and turning them into a personal galaxy.
“[We didn’t catch your name!]”
The woman smiled. It was a smile that seemed to understand everything about them—the cold, the exhaustion, the weirdness of the night, and the good intentions underneath it all.
“Call me Dolly, dear,” she said, her voice warm enough to melt the ice on the curb. “Y’all get home safe now.”
The door thudded shut with the heavy, expensive sound of luxury engineering. The car pulled away, merging seamlessly into the river of yellow cabs and slush, leaving Ifuji and Cafe standing alone on the corner of 50th Street.
Ifuji stared at the receding taillights for a long moment. She looked down at the items in her hand. The candies were old-fashioned butterscotches. The laminate was heavy, emblazoned with a holographic guitar and the words ALL ACCESS – Ryman Auditorium.
“Nashville,” Ifuji mused, rubbing her gloved hands together to generate friction. “That’s… south, right? Like, Texas south? Maybe we can swing by next year for training camp if the budget allows.”
Cafe was staring at the empty space where the car had been. Her golden eyes were wide, the pupils blown slightly as if she had just looked directly into a spotlight. She wasn’t looking at the traffic anymore, but at the lingering trail of energy the woman had left behind.
“Cafe?” Ifuji waved a hand in front of the Umamusume’s face. “Hello? Earth to Cafe. You all right? You look like you just saw a ghost—and I know you see ghosts all the time, so that’s saying something.”
Cafe blinked slowly. She pulled her scarf up, hiding a smile that was both secretive and awestruck.
“Not a ghost,” Cafe whispered, her voice tinged with a rare reverence. She tilted her head to the left, listening to her invisible companion. “A Queen.”
“A queen?” Ifuji laughed, steering them toward the sidewalk and the promise of ramen. “Like, of a pageant? Yeah, I can kinda see that. Definitely had the hair for it.”
Cafe didn’t correct her. She walked beside her trainer, her boots crunching in rhythm. She could feel the vibration of the encounter humming in her chest, a resonance that felt like a guitar chord struck in a large, wooden room. Her invisible friend was currently running in circles.
They walked in silence for a block, the adrenaline of the impromptu performance fading into a pleasant, bone-deep tiredness. The snow had slowed to a gentle drift, turning the city into a soft-focus photograph.
“You know,” Ifuji said, breaking the silence as she pulled out her phone to check the map. “We managed to do almost everything in one night… We saw the tree. You sang—which was amazing, by the way, I’m still not over that. And we got the gifts.”
She sighed, her breath pluming in the air.
“But we totally failed on one thing…”
Cafe looked up, tilting her head. “Failed?”
“Yeah. Your bucket list,” Ifuji said, gesturing vaguely at the skyscrapers around them. “Remember what you said back home? You said you wanted to sip a fizz cocktail and go celebrity spotting.” She shook her head. “I mean, we’re in the middle of Manhattan on Christmas for crying out loud! You’d think we’d see someone famous. Maybe an actor, a singer, maybe that guy from the news… But nope. Just us, a choir with a sprained ankle, and a nice lady named Dolly with a rhinestone addiction.”
Ifuji patted Cafe’s shoulder. “Sorry, girl. Maybe next time we’ll spot someone big… I’ll keep my eyes peeled for anyone who looks like they have an entourage.”
Cafe stopped walking.
She looked at her trainer—this brilliant, chaotic, fiercely loyal woman who could spot a tendon injury from fifty yards away but couldn’t recognize a living legend when she was handed a backstage pass and a butterscotch.
Cafe looked at the friend hovering near Ifuji’s shoulder. The friend was miming a facepalm.
A tiny giggle bubbled up in Cafe’s throat. It was a light, airy sound, like wind chimes in a breeze.
“What?” Ifuji stopped, looking back. “Why are you laughing? Is there something on my face? Is it whipped cream?”
“No,” Cafe said softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She started walking again, brushing past Ifuji with a newfound bounce in her step. “No whipped cream.”
“Then what’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Cafe murmured, clutching her coat tighter. She felt warm. Warmer than the cocoa or the wool could account for. “I think… I think I’m okay with not seeing a celebrity today.”
“Really?” Ifuji jogged to catch up, falling into step beside her. “Well, that’s a healthy attitude at least. Focus on the experience, not the fame. Very mature of—”
She stopped.
Something had just smacked the back of her head. There was no pain, no real force, but the sensation was unmistakable. Like someone had bopped her with a rolled-up newspaper.
Ifuji’s hand flew to the spot, patting the wool of her beret. Nothing. No ice falling from an awning. She turned in a slow circle, scanning the empty sidewalk behind them.
“Did you…?” Ifuji frowned, her fingers still probing the back of her head. “I swear something just hit me.”
Cafe had stopped a few feet ahead. She was looking at the empty space beside Ifuji with an expression of perfect, serene innocence.
“The snow,” Cafe offered gently. “It falls… unpredictably.”
“Yeah, but…” Ifuji shook her head, lowering her hand. The sensation was already fading, leaving only a vague impression. “Whatever. I’m losing it. Too much sugar, not enough sleep.”
Cafe reached into her pocket, her fingers brushing the cold silver of the Buffalo nickel she had bought, and thought of the woman who shone like the sun.
“Next time though,” Ifuji rattled on, holding the door open for her. “We are definitely finding you a fizz cocktail. I refuse to fail on two counts.”
“You have a deal,” Cafe said, and stepped out of the cold.