The sky over Tokyo was a bleeding indigo, reflecting the neon hum of a city that was slowly forgetting itself.
Sora stood on the edge of a high-rise balcony, staring down at the faceless crowd. In this world, tragedy didn't strike with blood; it struck with light. People were losing their shadows. And with every vanishing shadow, a piece of their heart—a memory, a love, a regret—disappeared into the void.
"Is this all that's left?" Sora whispered, his fingers tracing the outline of his own flickering shadow on the cold concrete.
Suddenly, a sharp, crystalline sound echoed through the rainy air. Below him, on the roof of an ancient, forgotten shrine, stood a girl. She held a strange loom made of glowing, starlit threads. As she moved her hands, she wasn't weaving cloth—she was weaving the fragments of lost shadows floating in the air.
She looked up, and for a heartbeat, the world stopped. Her eyes weren't just eyes; they were constellations of every memory she had ever saved.