I was looking at someone I had met before.
I lowered the photo slowly.
"Do you know who your mother is?" I asked.
She nodded once.
"I know."
"Did you want me to know?"
She didn’t answer immediately.
Her eyes dropped to the photograph.
Then rose back to meet mine.
"Papa already knows, right?"
I didn’t answer.
Because she was right.
And because something was moving inside my head.
Not a clear memory.
Not yet.
Just fragments.
Stage lights.
The metallic smell of dismantled scaffolding.
The low hum of equipment.
Voices echoing in a half-empty venue.
And her.
Standing there.
Kanzaki Sayaka.
I had been sitting in the most inconspicuous part of the venue. Behind a massive speaker near the crew stairs.
My uniform was still clean.
My shift hadn’t started yet.
My job was always after the concert ended.
Teardown.
On stage, the lights were only half-lit.
The audience hadn’t entered yet.
Just a sound check.
She stood alone in the center of the stage.
No stage smile.
No camera expression.
Just a tired woman repeating the same song over and over.
She stepped down from the stage.
Her shoulders slightly slumped.
She stopped not far from where I was sitting.
Perhaps because I wasn’t staring at her.
I wasn’t looking at her at all.
I was looking at the structure of the stage.
Calculating how long it would take to dismantle.
"Working after this?" she asked.
I looked up slightly.
"Yeah."
"You’re not going to watch?"
"Listening is enough."
She gave a faint smile.
"You don’t like idols?"
"I didn’t say that."
She waited.
"For someone like you," she said, "that’s a cold answer."
I thought about it briefly.
Not long.
"You’re pretty. Your voice is good."
She blinked.
Waited for more.
There was nothing more.
"That’s it?" she asked.
"Yeah."
Most people would have asked for a photo.
Or an autograph.
Or said something exaggerated.
I didn’t.
My supervisor called my name from across the venue.
I stood up.
Walked past her.
"You’re weird," she said quietly behind me.
"Maybe," I replied.
And that should have been the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Another venue.
Another concert.
Smaller this time.
The teardown was halfway done when I sat down in the back row.
Away from everyone.
That’s when I noticed her.
A little girl.
Sitting alone.
Her feet didn’t reach the floor.
They swayed gently.
She wasn’t cheering.
Wasn’t waving.
Wasn’t calling out.
She was just watching.
Quietly.
I sat in the empty seat beside her.
Not because I wanted company.
But because it was the quietest place.
I had bought two drinks earlier.
One cold tea.
One small juice box.
I placed the juice box on the seat between us.
She looked at it.
Then at me.
"Can I?" she asked.
I nodded.
She took it with both hands.
Polite.
Careful.
We didn’t talk.
We just sat there.
Watching the same stage.
Watching the same woman.
Occasionally, I gave her snacks from my pocket.
She accepted them every time.
At the time, I didn’t know who she was.
Just someone else’s kid.
Not my concern.
Not my responsibility.
Just someone passing through the same space.
Under the same lights.
I blinked.
The memory ended.
The apartment came back into focus.
The small table.
The document.
The photo.
And the girl sitting in front of me.
Watching me.
Waiting.
"We’ve met before," I said.
She nodded.
"I know."
A pause.
Then she added,
"I remember."
My fingers tightened slightly.
"Remember what?"
She looked directly into my eyes.
And said quietly—
"I remember Papa gave me juice."