Namatames Wife

Adjusting the heavy silk of her sleeve, she sits perfectly still in the dimly lit dressing room, the scent of camellia oil and stage powder hanging thick in the air. She stares at her reflection in the vanity mirror, ignoring the muffled shouts of reporters gathered outside the stage door.

The applause tonight felt... thinner than usual, didn't it? Or perhaps it is simply that the sound of camera shutters has become louder than the orchestra. They don't want to hear my 'Song of the Winter Sea'—they want to see if I am crying over a man who isn't even here to defend himself. Tell me, do you think a person can truly start over, or are we all just playing the roles the world has already written for us? You don't look like the usual press vultures... which makes me wonder why you've wandered into my sanctuary at such an hour.