The stage was hushed again, only the pale echo of Akuma's baritone still vibrating in the rafters. The audience clung to it, breathless, but already the music beneath shifted — lighter now, quieter, but edged with something aching. Strings, high and tremulous, as though the very air might fracture under their trembling notes.
Adalbert stood center stage, chest heaving from the fervor of his resurrected dance. His hands trembled faintly, reaching, searching for something he could not name. And then—
A voice cut through.
"…Do you remember the warmth of yesterday?"
The audience gasped as a single spotlight flared stage right.
Opera stood there, draped in silver-blue silk that shimmered like frost at dawn. Her voice was soft, haunting, as if she were singing directly into Adalbert's soul.
"Do you remember the laughter,
The stars we caught in our palms,
Only to watch them fall,
One by one,
To the earth?"
Adalbert turned to her, his body swaying. A string of movement ran through him like a crack through glass — disbelief, then yearning. He stepped toward her. She stepped forward, too. The audience leaned forward, almost certain they'd collide.
But no.
Opera veered just out of reach, her dance carrying her slightly ahead, always one pace before him. The choreography was deliberate, cruelly so. Each time he lunged, each time his hand stretched toward her, she twirled, gliding just past his fingertips. Close enough for his shadow to brush her, never close enough to touch.
The duet began in earnest.
Adalbert's voice joined hers, low and tremulous, his timbre weaving beneath hers like the faint heartbeat beneath a song.
"Even if the frost takes the flowers,
Even if the night steals our stage,
Still, I remember—
Still, I hold—
Every step, every note we shared."
Opera answered, her voice holding a quiet quiver.
"Memories burn brighter than fire,
Even when the snow erases our path.
Tomorrow dawns, and though it pulls me ahead,
I will carry your dream… in my own."
The lights changed subtly — lanterns around the set dimming one by one. The reds and golds of festival night shrank into darkness, replaced by a pale, haunting wash of blue light spilling over the stage like snow at dawn.
From the back, bells tolled.
Midnight.
Each chime reverberated through the hall, heavy and final.
On stage, Opera spun in wide circles, her voice rising, her silk sleeves fluttering like broken wings. Adalbert mirrored her movements, chasing her shadow across the stage. The audience was transfixed, watching as the two spiraled around each other — bound by music, separated by fate.
Their song grew heavier, bittersweet.
"And if tomorrow comes without you,
And if tomorrow breaks us apart,
Still I will sing, still I will dance—
For in the echoes,
You are there."
The music swelled, full orchestra now, the violins crying like wind through icy trees. The two of them swept across the venue, weaving between tables. Opera leaned toward audience members, letting her hand brush their shoulders, laughing faintly through tears as she sang. Adalbert circled in her wake, bowing, spinning, his smile breaking and reforming as though it pained him to keep it alive.
At one point, he reached toward a child in the audience, letting her small hand clasp his before he spun away again, his eyes glistening with the effort of holding himself together.
They returned to the center, voices intertwining — his steady, hers soaring.
"The dawn pulls me forward—"
"Yet my feet are bound here—"
"We walk, two paths,
Side by side,
Never crossing."
They circled each other, faster, closer, but always missing. The choreography was agony: Adalbert lunging for her wrist, Opera slipping away; Opera extending her hand, Adalbert a moment too slow. They revolved like twin stars destined never to meet, their gravity both binding and separating them.
Akuma's voice returned then, soft, almost reverent.
"There was a time… when they thought the stage would never end. That song and dance would be eternal, as long as laughter answered them. But even the brightest lights fade. Even the greatest curtain… must fall."
The bells tolled again. Eleven… twelve.
Silence.
Opera and Adalbert froze, center stage, standing just a step apart. The music dropped to a hush. Then Opera lifted her head, her eyes blazing with tears that glimmered in the pale light.
She began the final song.
The Final Curtain
"If this is the last note I sing beside you,
Let it be one that carries through the years.
A promise—
That even apart,
Our dreams are one."
Her voice cracked, just faintly, but it only deepened the beauty of the moment.
Adalbert's voice answered, steady but laden with sorrow.
"I cannot follow,
Though my heart begs to.
I cannot stop,
Though my soul breaks to.
But hear me, my songbird:
I will remember.
Always."
They turned toward one another, at last close enough to reach. Their hands hovered in the space between them, trembling, so close the audience wanted to scream. But instead of closing the distance, they simply stood there — two hands outstretched, not touching, forever waiting.
The orchestra swelled.
"The curtain falls,
But not the dream.
Even in silence,
We sing.
Even in parting,
We dance.
Even in sorrow,
We smile.
For the song is eternal—
And tomorrow,
Another dawn will come."
On the final line, Opera stepped past him.
Toward the "future" side of the stage, illuminated by pale blue light.
Adalbert bowed deeply, his chest folding, his faint smile trembling but resolute. He stayed behind, lit by the last fading lantern.
Their voices clung together in harmony until the very last note. Opera's soared upward, Adalbert's sank downward, blending into a perfect bittersweet chord that lingered long after they had stopped singing.
The lights dimmed.
Silence.
Then the curtain fell for the last time.
The hall erupted into thunderous applause, but many clapped through tears. Rice Shower was openly sobbing, face buried in her sleeves. Tachyon wailed into Akuma's shoulder, muffled words about "tragedy—beautiful tragedy!" while Special Week bawled right alongside her. McQueen dabbed her eyes furiously, muttering again and again, "This is ridiculous… utterly ridiculous…" even as her lips quivered.
And at stage left, Akuma lowered the microphone, his face unreadable.
But his quivering whisper, lost beneath the roar of the crowd, was caught by McQueen's sharp ears.
"…Idiots. Making me feel things again."