For the next several weeks, Him watched as he always had, but differently. He noted where Akari closed her eyes and the way the stage light caught the edge of her palm when she faked a tear. He learned how she breathed into long notes and how she kept her feet anchored when the rest of her was flight. He began to hum under his breath at specific moments, tuning himself to the subtext like a musician checking a string.
"I remember when the stage smiled," he said. "It liked to teach tricks to lonely people."
She pressed her forehead to his. "Then stay," she said.
"Did you give them back—those pauses you keep?" she asked.
After the show, the audience spilled into the alleys and the hush fell heavy. Him stayed. He waited until the theater was empty but for the crew sweeping up rice confetti and the scent of old wood. He stepped into the wings where Akari, in the half-light, unpinned her hair and rubbed her wrists. She looked less like a bright thing now and more like someone who had carried a long, small hurt.
She folded the scrap into her palm and pressed it there as if it were warm. "Most witnesses leave," she whispered. "They give nothing back."