>>105556023
It was just a transplant.
A simple procedure. A match was found after my accident — miraculous, really. A healthy donor heart. They never told me who it came from. Some privacy policy, I guess. But they said it was a perfect match, almost like it was meant for me.
At first, I was just grateful. My life had been hanging by a thread. But the weeks after the surgery… things started to change.
I used to be blunt. Pragmatic. Logical. But now… I found myself hesitating. Thinking more about how others felt. It wasn’t just empathy — it was like I could feel people’s moods, like I was tuning into some unspoken frequency. I started brewing tea at home. Not just bags — full ceremonial sets. Porcelain, flowers, little wagashi sweets. I didn’t even know how I knew these things.
My voice began to sound different in recordings. Softer. There was a lightness to it, a slight breathy melody that hadn’t been there before. Friends said I was “radiating a peaceful aura,” which was definitely not a thing people ever said about me.
I chalked it up to recovery hormones, maybe neurological rewiring — until the dreams started.
Every night, I saw her. A snowy room, cozy and filled with laughter. Yukihana Lamy. She'd sit across from me in a traditional kimono, her icy blue hair glowing faintly in the candlelight. She spoke kindly, in a voice like wind chimes on a snowy night.
"You're doing well, aren’t you? My heart fits you nicely."
I’d wake up with her words echoing in my mind. And more than that — I’d remember things. Things I never lived. Memories of collabs, streams, birthday lives. The nervous excitement before a debut. The weight of fan expectations. Her warmth. Her loneliness.
Her joy.
I started keeping a journal — trying to separate my thoughts from hers. But the lines kept blurring.
I bought a bottle of sake out of nowhere. I don’t even drink. But when I held it… my hands trembled, and I smiled like I was holding something precious. Like a gift from a listener-san. That night, I toasted alone, saying:
“Thank you for supporting me…”
In her voice.
One day, I found myself staring at the mirror — hair dyed a soft blue, kimono tied just right. I didn’t remember buying it, but it fit perfectly.
My pulse fluttered. My heart — her heart — beat faster.
I spoke aloud: “I’m still me… right?”
But the reflection tilted its head, smiling gently.
“Does it matter?”
