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I had meant to knock.
A white sleeve passed through the narrow gap between the sliding doors. I peered inside, my raised hand suspended in the air.
Someone was dancing.
He turned with a folding fan in one hand, the hem of his white-and-gold kimono moving quietly across the floor. His steps were light, and every small movement seemed to change the space around him. When the fan opened, it briefly hung at the sky like a crescent moon.
Takashina Sarafumi. The head of Takashina-ryu. A Japanese dancer who had performed onstage since childhood.
I completely forgot why I was there. My eyes widened as I tried to take in the radiant beauty before me.
It was the final dance from Hagoromo: The celestial maiden had agreed to dance in exchange for the feather robe that would carry her home, Heaven.
He began the final ascent. Every movement was exact. Nothing was hurried, and nothing was wasted. Yet when he lifted his face toward the imagined heavens, something in the movement tightened. A strange feeling struck me. The celestial maiden had regained her feathers, but she moved as though the earth still held her ankle, waiting to pull her back.
I knew I shouldn’t stare for too long, but before I could move, his eyes met mine. His sharp, assessing gaze startled me, and I realized that my hand was still suspended before the door.
“You watch with remarkable intensity,” he said. He smiled with courtesy. For an instant, I wondered whether I had imagined the unapproachable air around him.
“I’m sorry!” I lowered my hand. “I’m Tachibana Kisa, from Univeil Drama School. I’m here for our scheduled lesson. Our next production includes a scene based on Hagoromo, and I came to ask for your guidance, Takashina-senpai.”
“Fumi is fine. I dislike stiff titles.” He opened the door to let me in. “Though perhaps not when the rest of my family is around. They are particular about traditional etiquette.”
“Then…Fumi-san, I look forward to learning from you.”
His easy manner loosened some of the tension in my shoulders. I stepped into the practice room, and in the warm afternoon light, I finally saw his face clearly.
I had imagined the head of the Takashina family would be much older. Up close, however, Fumi looked only a few years older than me. It was difficult to believe that someone so young had already inherited responsibility for an entire school of dance.
“I heard that Univeil usually performs modern musicals,” he said.
“Yes. That’s why I thought traditional Japanese dance might bring something different to Hagoromo.”
“I see.” Fumi studied me for a moment.
“Then there is one condition, Kisa. You may use what I teach you in your production only after I approve the final choreography.”
I nodded.
“Good.” His eyes moved briefly toward my feet. “Have you studied traditional Japanese dance before?”
“To be honest, no. But the performance is still two months away. I’ll work hard.”
A trace of amusement appeared in his eyes.
“I’ll trust your determination.” He placed a folding fan in my hands. “For today, we’ll begin with how to hold this.”
“Understood!”
I had expected him to teach me a dance.
Instead, he spent the next hour correcting my fingers.
The fan sat too deeply in my palm. My thumb pressed too hard against the guard. I opened it too quickly, closed it too loudly, and once nearly let it slip from my hand. Each time, Fumi noticed before I did.
“Try again, Kisa.” Again.
“Your wrist moved first.” Again.
“The sound should come from the fan, not from your effort.” Again.
By the time the light had turned orange across the floor, I had repeated the same opening and closing motion so many times that I forgot to count. Finally, Fumi stopped and nodded. “Good, remember that feeling.”
When I finally returned home, I collapsed onto the sofa without removing my jacket.
Traditional Japanese dance used parts of the muscles I had never needed to think about before. And Fumi—so friendly outside the lesson—became merciless the moment I began to move.
There was so much to learn, yet I knew almost nothing about Japanese dance, much less Takashina-ryu. If I truly intended to bring it onto Univeil’s stage, I may have to practice on my own.
I reached for my phone and began to search.
One title caught my attention: Takashina Sarafumi’s First Performance.
A boy of seven or eight knelt onstage and bowed to a crowded theatre. His face was still round from childhood, but the moment the music began, his expression changed. He lifted a fan, turned with solemn confidence, and entered the same story I was learning from him.
Hagoromo.
Compared with him, I had only received formal dance training for nearly a year.
When the video ended, I searched for more recent performances. There were many recordings from his childhood and early adolescence, but surprisingly few from the last several years.
I scrolled through the results, but nothing new appeared. Instead, the site recommended a completely different video.
The thumbnail showed a dancer in a tank top, but strangely his face was hidden from the camera. It had received quite a lot of kudos. Curious, I opened it.
The dancer went by the name Ando. He performed a theatrical modern routine blended with street-dance elements. I was struck by the unrestrained joy in the way he turned and moved with the music, as though he were dancing for no one but himself.
Why would someone this good hide his face?
His style might offer ideas for another Univeil performance, so I followed the account and put my phone aside.
For now, I had enough trouble learning how to open a fan.
In the next few weeks, Fumi kept me on the fundamentals. At last, after watching me complete a turn with the fan held correctly, he gave one of his rare approving smiles.
“You really do have talent, Kisa. I think we can begin the choreography for Hagoromo now.”
“Really?” My heart leapt.
The excitement lasted only until I finished the first passage.
“You already know the sequence surprisingly well,” Fumi said. “But your steps are too light, and the shape of your hand is not correct enough. Those mistakes weren’t there during the basic exercises. What influenced you?”
“Um…” For the past few weeks, I had been practicing with recordings of Fumi’s childhood performances. I had memorized parts of the choreography before he taught them to me, but I had never noticed any issues with the steps or hands.
“I’ve been using some of your old videos for extra practice.” I found one on my phone and showed it to him.
Fumi’s eyes widened slightly. “So that performance was recorded after all.”
“You’ve never watched it?”
“No. I had only ever seen myself dancing Takashina-ryu in the mirror.” He watched the small figure moving across the screen. “Knowing that my performance can be stopped, repeated, and examined whenever someone wishes feels rather strange.”
Then he smiled at me. “And now you’ve copied my old habits as well. My father and brother used to correct the same things over and over.”
“But you already looked incredible.” And so free. So, dazzling.
“As the future head of Takashina-ryu, it was nowhere near enough.” The lightness vanished in his voice. “Now that I’m teaching you myself, don’t use those recordings anymore. I don’t want them interfering with what you learn here.”
A faint hesitation stirred in me, though I could not explain it. “All right.”
The lessons continued, and Fumi refined every passage until my movements matched the form he expected. My steps grew steadier, my hands more precise, and my timing cleaner.
Yet the closer I came to the correct Takashina-ryu Hagoromo, the farther the celestial maiden seemed to recede. I could no longer grasp the vague connection between the maiden and myself.
Is she free? Am I free?
When I finally gathered the courage to raise the question with Fumi, the easy warmth in his voice disappeared. For a moment, he said nothing. His fingers tightened around the closed fan before relaxing again.
“The choreography of Takashina-ryu has been passed down for generations, and every Takashina head keeps the traditions,” he said. “The maiden’s freedom is not the same as the dancer’s freedom. It is expressed through movements refined and preserved over time.”
“But if the dancer cannot feel that freedom,” I asked, “how can the audience believe the maiden is free?”
He looked at me without answering. For a moment, I thought he might say something less certain than the rule he had just given me. But a knock interrupted him.
“Fumi-san.” The sliding door opened, revealing a young man in a kimono. “One of Father’s former patrons has arrived. It is his first visit since you succeeded him. You should greet him yourself.”
He noticed me and paused before offering a polite bow. “You must be Tachibana-san from Univeil Drama School. I’m Fumi-san’s elder brother.”
“Yes. It’s an honor to meet you, Takashina-san.”
“I was glad to hear that he had agreed to teach someone outside the family. Fumi-san has always been the most gifted dancer among us.” His smile softened. “None of us expected he would have to inherit everything so soon.”
Fumi slightly tightened his body and looked at his brother, who gave Fumi a small nod toward the corridor.
He glanced back at me once more,as if he wanted to say something. But when he spoke, his voice had become formal again. “I’m sorry, Kisa. We’ll end here today.”
He paused before leaving. “And remember our agreement. Any choreography presented as Takashina-ryu requires my approval.”
Then he followed his brother down the corridor, leaving our unfinished question behind.
After returning home, I kept thinking about my unfinished conversation with Fumi. At last, I understood what had felt strange when I first watched him dance. The celestial maiden was free, but the dancer performing her seemed restrained.
Could I really bring such a dance onto Univeil’s stage?
Or…should I give up on performing Takashina-ryu?
The thought left an unexpected ache in my chest. Takashina-ryu itself was still beautiful—the moon created by the fan, the wind carried by the sleeves, and the vast scenes formed through only a few movements. Perhaps it only needed a little more freedom, a clearer sense of flight.
Still uncertain, I began browsing dance videos online. And the disguised dancer Ando came to my mind.
I replayed one of Ando’s videos, watching not the steps themselves but what happened between them. He never cut off a movement at its proper end. A turn flowed into the next reach, and even after he landed, his body seemed to continue upward. As I watched, an idea occurred to me.
I remembered the answer he had almost given before we were interrupted. Somehow, I could not believe that he truly wanted Takashina-ryu to remain unchanged forever.
For several days, I had practiced alone, taking apart the final ascent and rebuilding it around the feeling I could not explain to him. I kept the stillness he had taught me, the weight in each step, and the vast images created by the fan and sleeves. But I no longer allowed every movement to stop exactly where the form demanded.
At the beginning of our next lesson, I stood in the center of the practice room and tightened my fingers around the fan.
“I changed part of the final passage,” I said. “Would you watch it, Fumi-san?”
Fumi studied me for a moment. “Go ahead, Kisa.”
My pulse quickened as I took my position.
The first half followed the choreography he had taught me. Then, the maiden regained her feather robe.
I let the restraint remain inside my body, but I stopped holding it back. The turn opened instead of closing. My sleeve continued past its prescribed ending, and my body followed the upward pull before my feet had fully settled beneath me. For one breath, the movement no longer belonged to the floor.
When I finished, my chest was rising quickly.
The room was silent aside from my breathing.
At last, Fumi spoke.
“This is not what I taught you. Where did those movements come from?”
“I got inspiration from a dancer online. His account is called Ando.”
Fumi’s expression suddenly changed. It happened so quickly that I almost missed it. His eyes widened, and the hand resting against his knee closed into a fist. “Ando?”
I stared at him. “You know him?”
He didn’t answer my question. “You saw one of Ando’s videos and decided to put it into Takashina-ryu?”
“I didn’t copy his choreography. Watching him only made me realize that the dancer’s own feelings could change what the audience saw.”
“After studying for only a few weeks, you believe you could understand what Takashina-ryu lacks?”
The Fumi I knew would have softened the question or turned it into another correction. This time, he did neither.
“I only wanted you to see what I meant.”
Anger remained on his face. Then it disappeared.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm. “I cannot approve this version. You may not perform it as Takashina-ryu.”
My chest tightened, but I knew that answer was possible. “Then I’ll revise it.”
“No.” His expression had become completely formal. “I will not continue teaching you.”
I stared at him. “Fumi-san—”
“My decision is final, Kisa.”
The distance between us suddenly felt impossible to cross.
I had changed the dance because I admired it, not because I thought its traditions were worthless. But perhaps he saw only an outsider interfering with something his family had protected for generations.
I forced myself to ask one last question. “Did you think it was beautiful?”
His lips parted. For an instant, something in his expression faltered. Then he looked away.
“There will be no more lessons,” he said. “I will see you out.”
He took back my folding fan.
Without Fumi’s lessons, my days returned to their usual rhythm—classes, rehearsals, meals, sleep. Yet something always seemed to be missing.
I took apart the original Hagoromo choreography and rebuilt it around my own understanding. I kept elements of Japanese dance, but little remained that could be recognized as Takashina-ryu.
Still, I was not satisfied. The image kept returning to me: Fumi’s long sleeves unfurling, the fan closing in his hand before rising with a delicate flick.
With only two weeks left before the performance, I opened my messages with Fumi. The conversation had remained empty since our argument.
After staring at the screen for a long time, I sent him a recording of my latest rehearsal and asked for his advice.
I know you are no longer teaching me now…But could you give me some suggestions about this?
He stayed silent for days. Finally, a message popped up.
Please give me a little more time.
More time...I sighed and opened Ando’s page instead. Perhaps my other “teacher” could give me some inspiration.
A new announcement attracted my attention. Ando would be holding a small experimental performance the following evening, in a basement venue near Univeil.
I should go check it, I thought.
The venue was dim but surprisingly crowded. The audience waited excitedly around a narrow stage.
Then Ando appeared. He wore the same tank top as in his videos, his face hidden behind a mask.
The music began. People cheered, but I froze in shock.
He opened a folding fan. This was not the modern dance I had expected. The movements were those of Japanese dance. The quiet steps, the pauses, the moonlight gathered by the fan.
It was Takashina-ryu’s Hagoromo.
No.
The sequence had been taken apart and reshaped.
It was my Hagoromo.
Ando even included the brief hesitation before the final ascent, a detail that had appeared only in the rehearsal I sent to Fumi.
Though I was shocked, the two figures in my mind overlapped.
It was him.
At the end, the maiden rose and left the earth behind. Ando landed, bowed, and slipped backstage while the audience was still applauding.
I followed him into the narrow corridor.
“Fumi-san.”
His body stiffened. Slowly, he turned and removed the mask.
Without the formal kimono or the composed expression he wore at the Takashina residence, he looked like an ordinary dancer only a little older than me.
“Kisa.” He hesitated before calling out my name. “I hoped you would come.”
“I never imagined you were Ando.”
“No one has ever found out. When I dance as Ando, no one asks what the head of Takashina-ryu should be.” Fumi looked down at the mask in his hand. “You joined together two things I had kept separate for a long time.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. And my chest tightened.
“Was that why you were so angry?”
“Yes.” His gaze met mine. “You changed the dance. And you made the change feel possible. And...it is beautiful.”
I smiled.
“Do you want to keep Ando and Fumi separate forever?”
“No. But I’m not ready to remove this mask in front of my family yet. Perhaps when I am mature enough, I’ll be able to show them this dance as Takashina Sarafumi.”
“You will.”
A faint smile touched his face. “Until then, teach me how you changed the ending.”
I blinked. “You want me to teach you?”
“You found something I could not.”
“Only if you continue our dancing lessons.”
“That seems fair.” He held out his hand.“I will come to see your Univeil Performance.”
And I took it.