Arima Kana’s palms were slightly sweaty as she sat waiting for her turn.
To her right was the director, and to her left—her mother. This dress doesn’t have pockets for a handkerchief, she thought. Should I borrow one? What if I mess up my speech?
Lost in thought, she turned her head slightly. Her mother sat with her chin lifted, staring straight at the stage.
She was waiting for a moment of brilliance—a moment that could bring back the long-lost glory she once had.
Kana wiped her hands against her lap, suddenly feeling a strange sense of calm.
It was almost like resignation, a feeling that seemed to belong only to her mother.
Ever since she was twelve, seeing her mother had always left her with a sense of detachment, as if she didn’t quite belong in the same space. But she didn’t let herself think about the painful memories—the broken telephone, the sting on her cheek, the sharp, cutting words. Her mind instinctively avoided them.
Instead, she felt herself sinking into a kind of blankness.
Only three more awards before it was her turn. She knew where she stood—her strengths, her weaknesses. She had already spoken with the right people in the industry. This awards ceremony felt like just another high-profile event.
Except this time, her mother was here.
A week ago, a slightly hoarse voice came through the phone. Her mother had announced, without room for refusal, that she was coming to the U.S. for the ceremony. Just like before—just like always. Kana hadn’t argued. She had simply added a polite mention of her mother in her speech.
Some might see it as a smart move. Even if she wasn’t the type to deliver a dramatic, tear-jerking tribute, a simple mention might still stir up some sympathy from the fans.
And so, three days ago, her mother arrived. And yesterday, she chose a perfect suit for the ceremony .
They had stood in front of the mirror together—similar in height, yet time had shaped their faces into two different versions of what could have been. Kana noticed her mother taking a deep breath, biting her lower lip as she stared into the mirror, as if she were trying to absorb everything in front of her.
The actress Arima Kana had fought to break free from the shell of a child star. But the woman who had once dictated her every move no longer had any chance of becoming a star herself.
Maybe she’s only fit for middle-aged mother roles now, Kana thought absently.
And maybe her mother was thinking the same thing.
The urgency of time becomes unbearable after forty.
For ten years, she had been caring for the elderly in the countryside, as if the scent of old age had seeped into every part of her body. At first, she used her daughter’s money to buy expensive skincare products and health supplements, clinging to the illusion that she could hold on to something. But they either didn’t work or she was too exhausted to use them. The endless cycle of caregiving drained her, leaving her too tired to think, too numb to care. The version of herself that once longed for everything bright and glittering felt like it had been buried here, in this dull, lifeless place.
She should have someone to blame.
When she closed her eyes, she could see them—her cheating husband, her useless daughter.
Leeching off her. Siphoning away her youth, her dreams, her talent. And in the end, betraying her.
On her way to the convenience store to buy a new futon, she stopped in her tracks, staring at a streetlamp that flickered unsteadily from a weak power supply.
On, off. On, off. On, off.
Before leaving the store, she bought a teru teru bozu.
She wasn’t sure if it came from some old legend or if she had made it up herself. Either way, she took the little doll, originally meant to bring sunshine, and stained it black with ink, stuffing two family names inside.
Arima.
She staggered to her feet, looking for nails, a hammer—anything. Anything to make her resentment tangible. Even if it wouldn’t actually curse them.
Just as she reached the door, her body gave out, and she collapsed against the cabinet, sliding down onto the tatami. Pressing her ear to the mat, she thought she could hear the old folks calling her name—asking for help, pulling her back into the endless tasks she once wouldn’t have touched.
Kana.
She mouthed the name, the soft syllables that had once left her lips in a moment of love.
Kana, if only you had been worth something.
On the day of the awards ceremony, Kana sat beside her mother at her manager’s request, smiling as photographers captured their carefully staged moment of harmony.
For years, rumors had circulated in the Japanese entertainment industry—Arima Kana’s mother was controlling, arrogant, and stubborn, to the point of interfering with her daughter’s career. Six months ago, that story had finally been sold to the press.
During that time, her manager’s main job was keeping her mother on the move. Not out of concern for her safety, but to prevent her from saying something reckless and making things worse. At first, they placed her in a rehabilitation center. When she grew too difficult there, they moved her to a luxury hotel in Tokyo.
Kana hadn’t objected. She barely commented on it at all, sticking to the PR script whenever she had to speak in public:
“My relationship with my mother? I’ve been independent for a long time—we don’t talk often. She’s worked hard over the years, and retiring in the countryside was always her wish. An interview? I think she’s let go of a lot. She did everything a mother could for me, and now it’s my turn to repay her. I’m truly grateful to her. Really.”
The scandal had faded, but precautions never hurt. Kana and her mother sat close, their shoulders touching, smiling as the cameras zoomed in.
Even past forty, her mother still had a trace of an actress’s instinct—she leaned in, beaming warmly, just like a proud mother should. Just like they had done under the flashing lights all those years ago.
A picture-perfect moment.
Since Kana’s career revival, her mother had rehearsed this scene countless times in the mirror. The hazy, golden past had started coming back in fragments—mentions of her name appearing more and more online, tied to new films and stage performances. Even though she had long since left the bustling city, small-town shop owners had started bringing up Arima Kana again.
Once, twice, three times.
The name that had once been a burden, something she avoided at all costs, had suddenly become something to take pride in.
At first, she didn’t quite process it.
She had been at the sink, rinsing vegetables, when water slipped into a cut on her finger, sending a sharp sting up her arm. She hissed under her breath, and suddenly, a memory from more than twenty years ago surfaced—the searing pain of childbirth.
A frail, ugly, wailing baby, screaming itself hoarse, until its cries turned into ragged, exhausted sobs. How much she had hated that child then. Ugly, impossible to get rid of. And yet, a mother’s instinct had made her raise her anyway. Then, over time, she realized—the child was beautiful, clever, just like her. She had every trait an actor needed.
“She’s just like you, isn’t she?” Her ex-husband had once said, pulling them both into his arms, delighted.
Yes. Too much like her. She had been so happy then, completely and overwhelmingly happy, so much so that she hadn’t left room for doubt. It wasn’t until the very end that she peeled back the wallpaper of her happiness and found a swarm of insects crawling underneath.
But now, it felt like that blank, ruined wall had been painted over with something fresh and clean.
Panicked, she ripped off the bandage, grabbed her coat, and rushed outside.
The countryside didn’t have Tokyo’s towering skyscrapers or its massive LED billboards, but at the far end of the shopping street, outside a newly opened café, a digital advertisement flickered.
She waited for twenty minutes.
And then, there she was—Arima Kana, starring in a morning drama.
A heroine bathed in golden sunlight, strong and determined.
Looking at her with a soft, knowing smile.
Time rewinds to the moment of the speech.
Arima Kana heard the distorted echo of the pre-recorded lines. As the video ended, all eyes turned to her. Just as she had rehearsed, she gave the director a small nod of acknowledgment before wrapping her arms around her mother in a warm embrace.
At the very end of this carefully staged act, she suddenly felt her mother’s body go rigid.
“Mama?”
There was no response.
Then, in the span of a single blink, her mother pulled away—hurriedly, almost clumsily—giving Kana a small push forward. Thankfully, the movement was barely noticeable. A second later, she covered her face, as if overwhelmed with joy.
“Kana, go on.”
Kana gave a slight nod.
Applause and cheers filled the brilliant, dazzling room.
For a brief moment, her mother felt as if she had stepped back in time, reliving one of her own performances. It had been a school play—she had been one of the best among her peers, commanding the stage, stealing every gaze.
Now, she had finally gotten what she had wished for all those years ago.
The daughter who had stolen her own chance at stardom, the child onto whom she had poured all her dreams, had not faded away as a forgotten child star. She had become a true, lasting actress. Fame, fortune, an effortless life—it was all here. There was no moment more perfect than this.
Her gaze followed Kana as she walked farther, step by step, up onto the stage.
And then, a distant memory surfaced.
Kana had been just a baby, still too small to be a child star—crawling around their cramped apartment, babbling nonsense. One day, she had tried to reach for a photo on the low table.
“Mama,” Kana had mumbled, pushing herself up, wobbling on unsteady legs.
”—Mama.”
Now, Kana stood at the podium, microphone in hand, chatting with the host with effortless charm. Then, she cleared her throat and flashed a flawless, practiced smile.
And down below, in the shadows, sat the woman who had once been her greatest obstacle, her greatest influence, her greatest love.
Her mother had finally faded into the background.
Before she even understood what was happening, a tear had already slipped through her perfectly applied makeup.
A woman no longer young, no longer beautiful, neither cared nor noticed.
Kana stood on a stage she could never have imagined reaching. And from there, she said her name.
Mama.
Yet the past twenty-some years would not replay in her mind. Only scattered fragments remained, buried under the weight of too many repetitive, numbing days—fractured further by too many moments of lost control.
“I owe everything to my mother,” Kana said, her gaze and the spotlight both falling on her.
“She was the one who discovered my talent, who made it possible for me to stand here today. From a child star to where I am now, her guidance has been my greatest gift.”
Tonight, countless people would be moved by this mother’s tears.
But Arima Kana’s mother simply sat there, as the thick fog of the past was burned away by this enormous lie—leaving only her own ugliness behind.
Her own, ugly face streaked with ruined makeup.
She didn’t even know why she was crying.
Maybe it was for time.
Maybe it was for distance.
Or maybe it was for that moment, over twenty years ago, when she had taken the photo from the low table—before Kana could reach it.