🎭手違いから始まる恋の序曲 - Ch2 - Dreaming in Anticipation

💜💗💜💗💜 Story 💗💜💗💜💗 On the night of The Rose and the Guillotine, Megurine Luka arrived at the opera house half an hour earlier than usual. The grand hall had not yet completely filled, and the musicians were still tuning their instruments in the orchestra pit. The broken, lingering notes of violins intertwined with the murmur of conversation, while attendants carrying silver trays moved between elegantly dressed guests. Luka did not linger in the hall. She went directly to the box they had shared before. The attendant had clearly remembered her. He respectfully drew aside the deep crimson curtain, checked the reservation list several times, and solemnly assured her that no mistake would occur tonight. “This box is indeed reserved for Miss Megurine.” “I understand.” Luka answered calmly, yet after the attendant departed, she cast a glance down the empty corridor. What she had been hoping for, it seemed, was precisely the error the theatre regarded as unforgivable. There was only one programme inside the box. She sat in the seat nearest the stage and arranged her gloves neatly upon her lap. Her eyes appeared to rest upon the programme, but her ears involuntarily followed every set of footsteps beyond the curtain. Whenever someone approached, she would raise her gaze slightly. When the footsteps faded away, she would turn another page as though nothing had happened. Kamui Gakupo had said that, should he reserve the same box again, perhaps they might enjoy the next opera together. But he had never truly made a promise. It had only been a remark exchanged as they left the theatre—perhaps nothing more than a courteous response to her little joke. Luka reminded herself that she had come tonight for The Rose and the Guillotine. The leading role was being performed by a rising soprano from the Royal Theatre Company, while the costumes had been created by a renowned designer. Luka had long wanted to see how the bloodstained white gown at the end of the first act would change beneath the stage lights, gradually deepening from pure white to crimson. Whether Kamui Gakupo appeared was of no importance. At least, that was what she had originally believed. As the lights of the theatre slowly dimmed, no familiar voice sounded outside the box. The conductor raised his baton. The overture began. Luka turned her attention back to the stage. The setting of the first act was a palace in the midst of a masked ball. Crystal chandeliers hung low while guests in masks whirled through a waltz. The heroine passed through the crowd to deliver one final letter to her lover, who was soon to be executed. The actors’ diction was precise, and the orchestra made scarcely a mistake. Yet Luka found herself distracted more than once. When the curtain behind her stirred gently in the breeze, she thought someone had entered. When the hushed voices of attendants drifted through the corridor, even her hand paused upon the page of the programme. But when the final note of the first act faded, she was still alone in the box. The curtain slowly closed, and applause rose from the audience. Luka remained seated, silently gazing at the deep crimson fabric hanging before the stage. She had arrived half an hour early. When taking her seat, she had even deliberately avoided the finest place at the centre of the box, leaving the other side unoccupied. Only now did she realise how foolish her arrangements had been. He was merely a man she had met once. They had shared a box by accident and discussed several acts of an opera. After leaving the theatre, they had not even exchanged addresses, much less made a genuine promise to meet again. Perhaps he had not given that evening another thought. Luka lowered her eyes and pushed the empty chair beside her closer to the table. “Only someone with whom I watched an opera once.” She spoke so softly that the words were almost a whisper. It was both a reminder to herself and an attempt to find a dignified excuse for the disappointment she could no longer deny. The interval ended, and the second act began. This was the opera’s most celebrated tragic sequence. The hero was being taken to the execution ground, while the heroine remained imprisoned in the highest tower of the palace. Separated from him by a wall she could never cross, she began to sing her final farewell. Luka did not sit down again. She stood at the front of the box with both hands resting lightly upon the gilded railing, looking down at the stage immersed in ghostly blue light. The heroine’s white gown had already turned a deep crimson. Before the tower scenery, she slowly sank to her knees and reached towards a single beam of light descending from above, as though it were the final trace of warmth left by her beloved. The soprano sang beautifully that night. She made no attempt to display the brilliance of her highest notes. Instead, she allowed each line to hover at the edge of breaking. Rose petals drifted down upon her shoulders, resembling both wounds and letters that would never reach their destination. At any other performance, Luka would have carefully considered whether the vibrato had lasted too long, or whether the lighting had shifted from cold to warm a moment too soon. Tonight, however, she merely stood in silence. The woman upon the stage was waiting for someone who would never return. And in that moment, Luka saw within that fictional sorrow the empty seat beside her. The thought made her frown. She did not like this version of herself. She was too easily influenced by the emotions of the stage, and far too willing to place expectations upon a man she had met only once. And so she fixed her gaze more intently upon the performance, as though watching closely enough might allow her to conceal every trace of that untimely disappointment. At the end of the second act, the bells of the execution ground began to toll. From the tower, the heroine heard the distant fall of the axe. Her voice stopped abruptly. She did not cry out. She merely opened her hand and allowed the final rose petal to slip from her palm. The orchestra fell silent. After a brief and absolute stillness, the curtain closed. Applause erupted. Luka remained standing, her eyes fixed upon the stage now hidden behind the curtain. She did not immediately join the applause, as though she had not yet emerged from the weight of the ending. For that reason, she did not notice when the curtain behind her was quietly drawn aside. Not until a familiar voice sounded at her back. “It seems I have missed the most important act of the evening.” Luka’s fingers tightened slightly. She did not turn around at once. The voice sounded more breathless than she remembered, and his breathing had not yet returned to normal. He had clearly hurried to reach the theatre. A moment later, his footsteps stopped a short distance behind her. “Miss Megurine,” Kamui Gakupo said quietly. “My sincerest apologies.” Only then did Luka turn. He still wore his dark violet evening coat, but his long hair was no longer as perfectly arranged as it had been during their previous meeting. The dampness of the night rain remained upon his shoulders. His neatly tied cravat had loosened slightly, and he had not even had time to bring his opera glasses. In his hand, he held only a ticket whose edges had been darkened by the rain. He bowed to her. “Something unexpected occurred and delayed my departure. I had believed I could arrive before the overture ended, but—” “You need not explain yourself to me.” Luka’s answer came more quickly than she had intended. And more coldly. Gakupo raised his eyes to her. Realising that she had revealed too much, Luka turned her gaze towards the audience, who were still applauding, and tried to restore calmness to her voice. “We made no promise,” she said. “Whether you chose to attend had nothing to do with me.” Gakupo was silent for a moment. “It is true that we made no formal arrangement.” His gaze fell upon the solitary programme on the table, then shifted to the empty chair she had pushed away. “But I believed that what you said that night was an invitation.” Luka finally looked at him again. A faint, apologetic smile touched Gakupo’s lips. “And so I wished to come, no matter what.” The applause gradually faded as the audience began waiting for the third act. Luka noticed the strands of hair dampened by rain against his forehead. She saw, too, that his breathing had still not fully settled after rushing all the way there. The disappointment she had struggled to suppress since the end of the first act seemed to be gently uncovered, only to be replaced by something softer. She still did not smile. Instead, she reached out and pulled the chair she had pushed away back into its former position. “The soprano performed very well in the second act,” she said evenly. “It is a pity you did not see it.” Gakupo walked to her side, though he did not immediately sit down. “Then, after the performance, may I ask you to tell me exactly what I missed?” Luka adjusted her gloves, deliberately avoiding his gaze. “To explain every detail properly would take a very long time.” “I have no other engagements tonight.” At last, the corners of her lips lifted. “That will depend on whether, after the third act, you still prove worthy of my time.” Gakupo took the seat she had left for him. At that moment, the overture to the third act began. The tragedy upon the stage had not yet reached its end. But within that opera box, the place that had been left empty was empty no longer.