Not the shamisen —but the mask.
“Play something,” the collector said. His voice was soft, almost kind. myuu hasegawa
That was the year the music stopped in her house. Her father, a once-famous violinist, had smashed his instrument against the wall after his wife left. The shards of spruce and maple had rained down like black snow. Myuu had picked up the longest splinter and hidden it under her pillow. A silent scream. Not the shamisen —but the mask