A fluorescent lamp above Eiko flickered twice. She stopped mid-step, listening.

Time goes by… so slowly.

The song. It wasn’t just in her head, right?

Time goes by… so slowly.

It had to be it. Hung Up by Madonna, one of Eiko's favorites, was now echoing faintly through the empty corridor. But here, of all places? Eiko blinked at the white sterile walls stretching before her, then squinted. 

At the far end of the hallway, barely visible, pink lights pulsed like a heartbeat.

"The studio," Eiko muttered under her breath. She must’ve left the stereo on. Jeez. How had she gotten this distracted lately? Forgetting her laundry in the washer for two days, not to mention the numerous times she had left her wallet at home. It was starting to get embarrassing.

But even as Eiko shook her head at herself, she was already smiling, marching towards the distant beat. Silly, maybe, to feel something over a room, but any excuse to return to the studio stirred something warm in her chest. That place wasn’t just four walls and good acoustics. No. It was where everything had begun: her first hit song, scribbled on the back of a ramen receipt, her first kiss, nervous and electric beneath the dim track lights.

Her first everything.

For a split second, the music warped like a scratched CD skipping mid-chorus, then snapped back into place. Eiko's smile faded. She had been walking for a while now, hadn't she? Yet the hallway kept stretching, impossibly long, like a rubber band pulling farther the closer she got.

No way. This didn't make any sense… An uneasy feeling bloomed in Eiko’s chest, but she swallowed it, and ran. Tried to. Yet every step dragged like she was wading through waist-deep water. Heavy. Sluggish.

Eiko’s legs trembled beneath her as she struggled to move. Just like her steps, the music dragged behind the beat, warping, slowing like a record melting in the sun. Madonna’s voice, once bright and sharp, now slurred into something deep, almost inhuman.

Eiko's eyes widened.

Wait a minute.

It wasn't her who left the stereo on, was it?

She froze. At the far end of the corridor, the ceiling lamp flickered once. Twice. Then, with a heavy hollow thud, it went out. Eiko flinched. 

No.

Another lamp followed. Then another. And another, each echo louder than the last. Until only one lamp remained right above her. A knot tightened in Eiko's throat. She felt like crying. It wasn't her.

It wasn't her studio.

Not anymore.

The last lamp flickered weakly, casting shaky shadows across the walls. It buzzed, struggled—

And then went dark.

Eiko wanted to sob, to scream, but her eyes snapped open and she jolted awake to the polyphonic chime of Madonna’s Hung Up—her ringtone—blaring somewhere from the kitchen.

"Jeez," Eiko gasped, bolting from the sofa, heart racing. How long had she been out?

She kicked a pile of laundry in her way, and stumbled barefoot across the cluttered floor. Please not the hospital, please be Tomoya instead, she prayed as she grabbed the phone off the counter and flipped it open.

Eiko blinked, surprised. "Ibe?" she said into the receiver, catching her breath. "Oh—Hi." 

"Hey, it's been a while." Ibe answered cheerfully. "What's up?"

Eiko couldn't remember the last time they spoke. Did she even send Ibe a New Year's card? Probably not. And now, standing in her sweat-soaked pajamas in the middle of the day, she couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing that didn’t involve a pile of mismatched socks or the half-eaten toast on her synth.

"Nothing much," Eiko said instead, hoping Ibe wouldn’t press for more. After all, it was Ibe's life Eiko couldn't wait to hear about. "And how's my favorite manager doing?" she asked with a curious smile blooming on her lips.

"You know me. Juggling twenty things at once, drinking too much coffee. "Ibe chuckled into the receiver; that half-shy laugh that always reminded Eiko of her mom’s. "Oh, but I landed someone big this time."

Eiko narrowed her eyes. For Ibe to call after all of this time, the client had to be huge. "Is it Namie?" Eiko gasped. "Kumi Koda? Please don’t tell me it’s Ringo Sheena, I’ll actually die."

A sharp rustle crackled through the line. Papers slipping, maybe a folder hitting the floor. "Uh—no, no," Ibe said. "It's—" She didn't finish. The sound of shuffling papers spilled from the other end, then faded into an eerie silence.

"Hello?" Eiko said, unsure if Ibe was even there.

Ibe cleared her throat, but didn’t speak right away. Eiko could hear her inhale, then blurt it out all at once: "It’s you."

Eiko burst out laughing. "Right. Me. The biggest star no one even remembers." She wiped a tear of laughter. "Come on, who is it, really?"

"I’m serious," Ibe said flatly. "I booked you a show."

Eiko’s smile faded. Had her ears always been ringing this loud, or was she only now noticing? "No," she said, almost mechanically. "You know it—you know I can't. You can't."

"Listen, it's not a comeback." Ibe's tone shifted to that sugar-sweet voice she reserved for label execs in intimidatingly expensive suits. "Just some charity event. A few songs. No choreography. Playback. Won't even have to move a muscle."

Eiko rubbed her temple. The tight pressure had started blooming again behind her right eye; nerves or another flare-up, she couldn’t tell anymore. 

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about it. The crowds. The lights. That version of herself who could sing without the fear of breaking. But Eiko liked her new life. It was quieter, slower, even if it had taken time, so much time, to get used to.

And even if she wanted to… "I can't." Eiko shook her head. "Dad's in the hospital. Again."

"I know, I'm sorry," Ibe said softly. "We spoke." 

"We? You spoke with my dad?"

"Yeah. He said, if you’ve got the energy to make him nikujaga from scratch every week, then you’re healthy enough to sing one damn song."

"But wha—"

"Taken care of." Ibe's voice crackled through the line, accompanied by the familiar click of her heels, no doubt pacing her office as she always did when scheming. "Yuu-chan will bring him dinner—yes, I called him too."

"You're unbelievable," Eiko muttered. She hadn't meant it cruelly. Ibe was just doing what Ibe always did, pushing Eiko toward the light, even when Eiko had learned to live in the dark. 

However, Ibe had no idea how long it had taken to stop aching for the noise. Those wounds had scabbed over slowly, painfully, and now Ibe was here again, planting a seed of temptation to tear them back open. And for what? A memory? A room that might not want her anymore? Eiko wasn’t ready for that. Maybe she never would be. "I'll think about it, okay?" she said, softer, even if it was a lie.

"That's the spirit!" Ibe cheered. "We're leaving in three weeks. Pack your bags."

"It's not a yes. I need to think this through." Eiko paused, brainstorming yet another excuse. "Tokyo's far."

Ibe clicked her tongue. "Uh—It’s… a bit further," she said, voice higher than usual, like she wasn't sure of herself.

"Osaka?"

There was a pause on the line, the kind that made Eiko stand up straighter. "Ibe?" she prompted.

"It's New York. We're going to New York."