Think of Me

The Queen was impressive, the Empress dazzling, but Ayame made the show. In something less than twenty-four hours he had completely destroyed and rebuilt Ino's costume from the inside out, and now he was simply resplendent in cascades of the purest white. His silvery hair literally twinkled with innumerable flecks of diamond that snatched the light of the great chandelier and threw it back out in a thousand and two sharp glints.

But all attention was on his voice, not his dress.

Ino had a good voice, when she chose to use it. Ayame's was the syren-song come alive, the crystal notes of the stars themselves. Delicate and full, touched by the lightest accent, it carried laughter and chimes and trumpets all at once and, effortlessly, nearly managed to drown out the entire orchestra. Even the prima donna's devotees were silent with awe.

Think of me, think of me fondly
When we've said goodbye
Remember me once in a while
Please promise me you'll try

In a shadowed box seat to the left of the stage, a man stirred.

When you find that once again you long
To take your heart back and be free
If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me!

He leaned forward in his seat and focused his opera glasses on the white spectacle center-stage, oblivious to all else.

We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But if you can still remember,
Stop and think of me

He stopped, and he thought.

Think of all the things we've shared and seen
Don't think about the things which might have been

A scarf caught by the wind, so many years ago.

Think of me, think of me waiting
Silent and resigned
Imagine me, trying too hard
To put you from my mind

The sun on the sand, and two boys laughing as they danced away from the waves.

Recall those days, look back on all those times
Think of the things we'll never do
There will never be a day
When I don't think of you!

The name came suddenly with all the force of a full-fisted blow.

"Can it be?" Shigure cried, lurching from his seat to lean out over the railing as far as he dared. "Can it be Aaya? Bravo!"

Off to the right someone in the audience hissed, and the orchestra became suddenly louder, but he paid no heed.

"What a change," he murmured, taking a step backwards, "you're really not a bit the gawkish boy that once you were. You may not remember me, but I remember...!"

We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But please promise me that sometimes
You will think -
of me!

As the final drawn-out note faded from the air, the opera house fairly exploded in applause, but the heavy door to Box Five hung open, the right-hand curtains still rippling in the wind from its former inhabitant's passing.

Or perhaps it was not the wind, after all. Moments after the theatre emptied, a tall slim man shook his way free of their heavy folds and moved to stand in the middle of the box, eyes fixed on the deserted stage. His arms nearly quivered as he wrapped his hands around the rail. He murmured a name to himself - Ayame - and then slipped through the door and down the hallway before disappearing around a darkened corner.

Another pause, and then a soft groan.

"Whatever happened," Hatori muttered darkly, "to the days when a man could watch an opera in peace?" His knees popped in unison as he stretched long legs for the first time in hours, unfolding himself from the cramped shadows behind the left-hand column. The black-haired man grimaced as he wondered what exactly he'd done to deserve not one but two extra visitors in what he considered his private box. The former manager, the good M. Flitwick, had kept the box empty in return for the occasional small favor; few cared to ask why exactly it was that the Opera House had suffered so few robberies recently. Hatori was accustomed to odd schedules and enjoyed wandering the theatre at obscene hours. If scaring off the local scum meant he got free operas every week or so, well then, who was he to complain? Plus, the rumors of phantoms and ghosts that necessarily arose among the superstitious youngsters at the Opera served to keep all but the most adventurous above-ground. Hatori didn't consider himself to be the secretive type usually, but when one was hiding from society in general, having the Opera House's catacombs almost entirely to oneself tended to make things easier.

He tossed a quick glance at the stage, wondering. That lead singer certainly hadn't been Ino; he just wasn't sure who it had been. Regardless, this "Ayame" was quite talented, and he was rather looking forward to the next performance. If only he didn't have to deal with those two other men... Stepping around to the back of the column with a frown, he ran his hand quickly over the smooth marble until his fingers found the tiny but familiar depression, and then with the soft rumble of stone on stone he was gone.

Box Five waited, silent, vacant.