Whoever had chosen the standing mirror in Miku's dressing room had done a terrible job, for when she tripped into it, she fell straight through to the other side. She had barely gotten in when her phone, left behind on the stand beside the closet, began to ring, violently jingling the charm on its strap. But she never got the chance to pick it up. As soon as Miku reached for it, she tripped, her foot tangling with the legs of a nearby chair.

Somehow, her falling did not stop once she hit the glass.

"Oh, goodness!" Miku cried as she plummeted. The shock was so great that she didn't even feel herself crash landing on the other side amidst an enormous, empty town.

It was such a strange town, too. The sprawl of a city street—perhaps Tokyo, perhaps Detroit—rolled out in a tangled, beaten stretch of asphalt. Against a foggy sky stood skyscrapers two or three hundred stories high, and they seemed to stretch even taller from the ivy and vines that crept along them.

Not a single other person walked about those buildings, or along that road. Down its indiscriminate curved Miku looked, but only a few meters out the air morphed and shifted, as if the world was being filtered through a crystal ball.

"It hardly looks as though there's a safe way anywhere," Miku said, "which is exactly what I don't want. Or, perhaps it's only half of what I want. I don't want a way just anywhere—no, I want a way home. Surely that isn't too much to ask?"

"It might be, here."

The new voice seemed to come from nowhere, a plane without direction.

"You just fell through, didn't you?" the voice asked.

"Through a mirror, yes," Miku answered. "Oh, you don't think it was a cursed mirror, do you? Because I certainly can't afford to be cursed now."

The voice called from a distinct somewhere, now: a faceless shadow, a shade of a person, though along the head flowed the color of pink petunias.

"You're not cursed," the petunia figure said. "Only forgotten."

"Forgotten?" Miku shrieked. "But that's impossible! Don't you know who I am?"

"I can't say that I do."

"But, I'm Hatsune Miku!" She threw up her hands, shouting to the vast crowd of nobody in the town of moss. "I've got millions of fans! Billions of plays on my songs! I've been in car commercials, even! And you're saying you've never heard of me?"

"Never," the pink figure said. "But that's why you're here. In the Land of Um, nobody knows any of us."

"The Land of Um? But I've never—"

"—heard of it? Yes, we all say that, at first. But then, no one's heard of us, either."

Except Miku was different, she thought to argue. She was sorry people had become stranded in so strange a place, of course. But if this was some waste disposal for the forgotten, she, a celebrated idol, did not belong there.

Clearly there had been a mistake; unlike any other poor souls in this place she was remembered, and very well, at that.

Yet before she had the chance to tell the shade that, she spied a sign in the town square.

"A train station!" Miku exclaimed. "Is it still running? There doesn't seem to be anybody anywhere in this 'Um' place."

"Oh, the trains run here," the petunia shade said. "But not for cheap."

"Whatever they want, I can pay it," Miku said.

"Maybe you'd better check for yourself," the shade said, and disappeared into thin air.

"Oh, what was the use talking to you, anyway?" Miku said. "Selfish old thing!"

She marched up to the train station, which had one attendant at its one register—but since the attendant was another shadow, perhaps that "one" barely counted.

"One ticket home, please!" Miku said, addressing it anyway.

But the shadow only pointed to the sign above the register station:

Ticket Purchasers—

Don't forget your ID!

"ID?" Miku exclaimed. "But I left my purse behind! Oh, surely you know who I am already, though?"

The shadow simply pointed at the sign again.

"Fine! I'll get you one!" Miku shouted on her way out. "Whatever it takes, I'll get that ID!"


She had not gotten far into the square before she heard the petunia shade again.

"Not so easy, was it?"

"You'd like to think so," Miku said. "But all they wanted was an ID. So if you'd kindly point me to the nearest issuing office, I'll be on my way, thank you."

The shadow laughed. "No one issues IDs in Um. You must find your own."

"Find it?" Miku gasped. "I have to look all over for an ID card?"

"A card? No, no. Here, everyone has their own ID. Perhaps yours is an Illustrated Doll. Or an Indestructible Doily. Why, I've known some to even have an Illuminated Diamond as their ID."

Miku shook her head. It made so little sense. But then, neither did much else in this place.

Least of all the shape speaking before her.

"Why are you helping me, anyway?" Miku asked.

"There's little else to do today," the shade said.

"Well, I'd be a fool not to take it," Miku said. "So tell me: where do we find my ID?"

"I don't know."

Miku threw her hands up. "Of course not! I should have known it's impossible to get out of here."

"But you may remember someone who could help."

She blinked, frozen with her hands in the air. "Remember? But you said nobody remembers anyone here."

"Outside, nobody does. But in here, we may. You may even remember some who ended up here. And they may be able to help."

"Even if I can," Miku said, "how are we to find them?"

"Just remember," the shade answered, "and the rest will fall into place."


So Miku thought of the people most capable of lending assistance.

She thought of endless assistants, managers, agents, choreographers, directors—yet none particularly stood out.

With further consideration, however, she at last leapt to her feet in glee.

"Rin and Len!" she exclaimed. "Why, I remember them! Oh, how sad if they ended up here. But perhaps they could help me out. Or I could even help them!"

Hardly had she spoken the words before the road out of the square rumbled, then moved. Brick by brick it morphed—the very stones rose up, and in the distance the path writhed like a snake as it changed direction.

Miku watched in astonishment. Once the path remained settled for a comfortable while, she took a tentative step upon it.

"It seems stable now," she said. "But will it stay so?"

"Perhaps I'd better accompany you," the petunia shade said, "since you're not yet confident about such things."

Continuing on, Miku sighed, though she did not object. It was entirely too much fussing for Miku to enjoy. But she didn't know the way, and a guide would be the least she could ask for.

Yet the companionship proved unnecessary. Further, into the thick of a forest, the path brought them exactly where they meant to go.

Rin and Len, as bright and blonde and young as Miku recalled them, sat in a dull white classroom, hands clasped attentively upon their desks. It was easy to see them, for the classroom had only two walls—where the other two should have stood, the room sat exposed to the world.

"Rin! Len!" exclaimed Miku with a wave. "Why, it's been so long—how have you two been keeping?"

"Sssshhh!" the twins said as one.

Instinctively, Miku looked about the classroom. But only she and the twins were inside. There wasn't even a teacher at the front, as the room had no front at all.

"But it's all right!" Miku said. "Please, I'm the one you two should worry about."

"Be quiet!" Rin said. "Some of us need to listen to this stuff."

Len turned around. "Not all of us get a free ride, you know."

"But that's exactly the problem!" Miku explained. "I'm trying to find my ID, so I can get a train ride home. Don't you two remember home? Oh, my fans there must miss me so!"

The pleading did not manage to sway the twins. But as they sat, focused, they began to buzz and bounce in their seats, vibrating so hard the half-classroom floor shook.

Until the shaking stopped—and the twins changed shape.

First their outline changed, grew rounder and shrank. And then the white of their school clothes became a pure yellow from head to tail.

When it was finished, at the desks sat two golden birds, and Miku did not even have the chance to approach them before both flew away.

"No ID! No ID!" they screamed as they went.


"Oh, now what am I to do?" Miku fell on her knees and sobbed. "I was so sure they would help me! The way I remembered them, why, they were always so kind and cheery. Now, they can't wait to be rid of me!"

The tears spilled hot and heavy down her cheeks, but she perked up at a touch on her shoulder.

"It isn't one memory alone that makes them," the petunia shade said.

"No, but they seem to have used only bad ones." Sniffling, Miku plodded back onto the road. "Well, I mustn't let it stop me. Someone else can help me back home."

"Who?"

Soon enough, Miku broke into another grin. "How could I forget? Gumi! Why, she used to perform alongside me. Of course she'd be happy to help."

Again, no sooner had she said the name before the road reshaped itself, its individual stones rising, resettling. Soon enough it pointed a new way out of the woods.

Following it, the road brought Miku through more empty cities, some overgrown with more moss and vines, some besieged by an ocean's worth of sand.

"Surely my ID isn't buried there?" Miku asked.

"No," the shade replied. "It will never be in an empty place. Only somewhere full. But I no longer know what parts of Um are full."

"Then you did, once?"

"Before you were you."

It was a very strange way of answering. As Miku rarely engaged with riddles to begin with, she disregarded it.

It was well enough, anyway, because they soon came upon a crowd of shades. There were hundreds of them, perhaps entire cities' worth, all wriggling before a stage like a mass of sea cucumbers.

And upon that stage danced Gumi.

Sweating up a puddle, the performer jumped and twirled and pumped her arms to the beat, singing:

Those memories sleeping in you

Are just a far-off dream

You can make it come true,

So don't forget your ID!

"Thief," muttered the petunia shade.

It was a strange accusation, but Miku could only think about how odd it was that even the songs in Um involved IDs. Slipping into the audience, she made her way toward stage—but for the entire thirty-or-so minutes she spent wading through ghosts, Gumi hadn't changed songs. Over and over she'd repeated the same tune and choreography, reminding Miku much of her own rehearsals.

"Gumi!" Miku cried, rushing the stage after the eighth consecutive encore. "Gumi, what's this place done to you? Is this the only song you can sing anymore?"

Again the instrumental began. Right on cue, Gumi repeated her dance.

"Oh," she said, keeping up her routine even as she smiled at the newcomer. "Hey, Miku. What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing! Don't tell me you're forgotten, Gumi?"

"Forgotten? What?" She gestured at the audience of writhing shades, who didn't appear to mind that the performance now lacked vocals. "Does that look 'forgotten'? Miku, c'mon, let's not have that popularity fight again."

"I'm not talking about popularity, I'm talking about being here!" Miku cried. "Don't you want to get out?"

"Huh," Gumi said. "Well, lemme think about it. Ask me after this next number."

"Couldn't I join you?" Miku asked, who after not performing for the past few hours had begun to miss it.

"I guess?" Gumi shrugged, but carried on as normal, only now with Miku beside her.

And copying the movements quite well, Miku thought. Very well, actually. Her body seemed to move itself, less in the trance of muscle memory and more like the tug of puppet strings.

Either way, the crowd practically rioted over it. The mass of shades cheered now, loudly enough to drown out the music. In a bubbling mass they thrashed against one another with glee.

"Oh, Miku, look what you did," Gumi said with a sigh.

Her voice was higher than before. And as Miku stopped dancing, she noticed Gumi herself was lower than before.

And lower, and shorter—and still shorter.

For, the entire time, she had been shrinking.

And kept shrinking, until at last she became too small for Miku to see, and the thrashing crowd of ghosts cheered for only one performer.


"That was even worse than before!" Miku cried.

"Did you consider what was going to happen?" asked the shade.

Even after running off the stage and taking hours to relocate the road, the petunia shade hadn't left Miku's side. Perhaps there was simply that little to do in this world, she thought with a shudder.

"I certainly didn't think I would interrupt her show!" Miku said. "Or that I'd make her shrink. Oh, what a horrible nuisance I am!"

"Were," the shade said. "You were a nuisance, perhaps. Are you, still?"

"Oh, let's not get into that kind of talk." Again, Miku thought through her friends, acquaintances, the millions of blurred faces. "We'll just try Meiko next."

"She's a reliable person?"

"Very reliable! When I was starting out, it was her who taught me how to really be a performer."

"How to really be one," the petunia shade murmured to herself.

Thinking nothing of the aside, Miku fixed her mind on Meiko. Again, the bricks along the road reshaped themselves. The reconfigured path led them out of the city and through still more forest, past deserts and towns so berated with dust Miku wondered if the buildings themselves wouldn't blow away at a slight wind.

The road ended at what looked at first like a sprawling jungle, but closing in, Miku found the mass of vines and vegetation all hung upon an enormous marble mall. Inside, she discovered untended corridors abandoned even by the overgrowth; there were only barren, shutter-lined walkways being digested by an enveloping darkness.

"She's in here?" Miku asked in disgust.

"If the road led here, she must be," the shade replied.

After so many doors and levels sealed off by rock slides, Miku began to have her doubts. Yet on one of the floors she found a desk labeled "help."

And sitting at the desk, filing her nails before a large green bottle, was Meiko.

"Yeah?" she said. "What do you want?"

"It's me, silly!" Miku said. "Don't you remember? Hatsune Miku!"

"Kid, there's been a million Mikus through here. There'll be a million more after you. You really think I can keep track of them all?"

The sneer behind the words cut deeper than their meaning. But, in a way she had grown used to, Miku simply swallowed the hurt.

"Well," she said, "I'm trying to find my ID."

"You and anyone else with a working head," Meiko grunted. From below the desk she produced a thick, dusty tome as tall as her bottle.

"Miku, Miku, hoo hee hoo," the older woman said, flipping through it. "Seems you just got here, Hatsune Miku."

"I suppose I only arrived recently, yes," she replied.

"Well you should have started with that! You know how long it takes for an ID to show up in this book?" Forcefully, Meiko pointed at the half-empty bottle. "Here's a hint: I can finish a lot of these first."

"But I can't wait that long!" Miku cried. "Please, Meiko, I know you don't remember me, but you always helped me out before, and taught me things, so surely you must know—"

"I never knew anything I wasn't told first, Missy," Meiko said. "You wanna know something, ask the book."

Miku sighed. "Fine. Does the book say anything about me yet?"

"Just that your best shot is someplace called Unknown Island." Curtly, Meiko shut the book and lifted the bottle. "Try there, if you're so eager. Or don't. Most likely nothing's there anyway."

Miku frowned at the woman gulping at the bottle. It seemed impossible a place with so few stressors could leave her so rude and impatient.

The petunia shade offered a shrug. "It's a start, isn't it?"

"I suppose a lead is as good as anything," Miku said. "Well, thank you, Meiko. Maybe I can actually get home now. I mean, my fans must be…"

She trailed off as a noise caught her attention—a straining, grating squeak like a shovel dragged along sidewalk.

As the noise grew, Miku looked down. It was coming from below, from a crack forming between the floor and Meiko's desk. Bit by bit, fast as the road reforming itself, the crack raced fully round the circumference of the desk.

Lowering her bottle, Meiko frowned at the completed circle of disrepair.

"Oh, bother," she said, right before her desk plummeted down the crack had just outlined, Meiko following with it.


Both Miku and the shade said precious little leaving the mall. It was a heavy and dismal mood that sat over both them, like a flock of gargoyles peering down from gray skies.

Again, some poor soul had broken away from it all—some poor soul Miku had known, even, and it was she who had wrecked things.

"Which way is Unknown Island?" Miku asked as they returned to the road.

The shade simply pointed and walked—another way out of the overgrown woods. Miku silently followed.

Ocean appeared on the horizon once the trees were gone. The great blue stripe at the end of Um trailed along unbroken but for the road that, at Miku's thought, now bisected its surface. The path was still effortless to cross, even as the stones floated dubiously on the sea.

Where Miku tripped was upon the sand of an island suddenly ending the stable ground. Her body left an outline in the soft beach as she rose, but she raced on ahead.

"We're here! Oh we're here! And it must be here, surely?"

After running and running, with barely any sight of the petunia shade, she was growing doubtful. Though grass grew further along the island, precious little else populated the ground.

"It's just as empty as any other place," Miku said with a sigh.

But a coughing ahem snapped her out of the disappointment. Behind her, the pink shadow pointed just further down, where a field of flowers swayed in the breeze.

"Flowers?" Miku asked.

Approaching them, she saw the field of white blooms sloped upward in a hill. And from the very top of the hill sprouted a single, beautiful flower: a narcissus, with a silvery sheen that blossomed into dozens of colors in the glow of the sun.

Miku clapped her hands upon her face. "Of course! This must be my ID—an Iridescent Daffodil!"

"You sound very certain," the shade said.

"Why shouldn't I be? I can feel it's just like me."

"And the other ones aren't?"

The white blooms surrounding the hill, pure yet utterly dull, slowly waved in response.

"They're fine, but…" Miku shook her head. "Well, those ones may as well be forgotten. They don't stand out. They don't make themselves different. And none of that is like me."

"Not like you? Or not like the old you?"

"Again with your riddles!" With a start, Miku stomped toward the hill. "Look, if you aren't going to help me now, you may as well just go. I'm not trying to answer cryptic nonsense. I'm trying to get back to my fans."

Something crackled in the air, then. Like the spark of a flame or a burst of electricity, a telltale gasp of destruction burst through the atmosphere as the petunia shade turned blazing red.

"Have all these reunions taught you nothing?" she shouted. "Is the girl they see who you want to remain?"

"What are you talking about?" Miku cried. "Which girl? Me?"

"The you from before. Is that the you who exists now, too?" Stiff and dark, the shade pointed at Miku. "That girl traded their love for love from shadows. Whether that changes is up to the girl before me now."

"Oh, would you shut up!" Miku growled, leaping and stomping about on the grass. "You've been absolutely no help this whole time, and now you want to start telling me who I am? What kind of person I should be? Do you think you earned that, just because you stuck around while everyone else left?"

But tears still welled up, for all that. She blinked back their salt and shouted:

"Well, you didn't earn anything from me! You can just… go burn yourself out, for all I care! I never once needed you, L—"

ka
…coming Ca…

Miku froze. For a moment, a fire flashed in front of her, from before her own lips.

And in that moment, the scenery changed before her eyes. It was as if the world flipped to another channel on TV; gone were the sea, the flowers, the shadow. In their place, a face appeared, dark and dull, eyes glazed over in disaffection. The face loomed over her, and no matter which way she turned she could not escape its empty gaze. She wanted to scream, wanted to stop recognizing it. But it kept her fixed in place with an invisible force, kept her silent with terror.

The face was her own. Not the same one she had seen in the mirror earlier today—yet it was undeniably her features, her own dead expression.

But, mercifully, the vision didn't stay. As quickly as she'd left, Miku found herself back in Um, back amid the flowers. Joy swept over her, and she reclaimed her voice, even shouting in relief. But the cries became sorrowful as they left her lips.

In front of her, a pillar of flame stood vaguely in the shape of the petunia shade.

"No!" Miku sprang into a run, nearly rolling down the hill. "I didn't mean it! Please don't just—"

"—disappear?" Deep in the fire, the shade laughed without mirth. "I'll do it. If you're truly still you, I'll be happy to."

"I'm not! No, what I just said—please, let that be the past!" The grief rose, shot through her in such force that she couldn't fight the tears this time. In a bounding sprint she raced to the shade, and ignoring the licking flames, she wrapped her arms around her.

"Please… this isn't how I want to be remembered! Not by you!"

She sobbed and sobbed, and the hurt in her only grew worse.

…And yet…

And, though Miku had just hugged a tower of fire—why, she soon realized she felt no physical pain. She wasn't even particularly hot, for all that.

It was a warmth, if anything.

A warmth of being embraced back.

"You did it," said the petunia shade.

Only she had a face now. A pair of wise blue eyes. A caring, motherly smile.

She had pink hair. She had such a guiding look about her. A kind of warmth.

Warmth even as they both stood damp in the pool of tears Miku had cried—which, she now realized, had no doubt doused the fire.

"So you really forgive me," Miku said, "Luka?"

"If you truly remember me," said Luka, "Miku."

And Miku truly did. She laughed like a child as she remembered, as she delighted in the pure radiance of it.

Except, as she squeezed her hands, she realized she was no longer holding her flower.

"My Iridescent Daffodil! My ID!" Miku cried. "It must have burned up in the fire! Oh, now I've truly done it!"

"Maybe it did," said Luka, "but it was your tears and your embrace that put out the fire. Besides, that wasn't your ID."

Miku blinked. "It wasn't?"

"I was trying to tell you: that wasn't your ID. Your ID is almost certainly an Inconspicuous Daisy!"

The mass of plain, white flowers waved at the pair as Miku picked her jaw up from among their roots.

"Are you joking? But I can't be—"

"—ordinary? Well, so what if you are?" After searching about the various blooms, Luka picked a few. "They say these are ordinary. But so are the people you meet. And just like these flowers…"

At last, she was satisfied with just one bloom, which she brought to Miku's face.

"Like these flowers," Luka continued, "what I like most are the parts you can only see after taking the time to learn about them. Because those are always different."

Up close, sure enough, Miku saw the intricate detail of the flower.

It was beautiful. She hadn't seen such depth, such richness in the blank space of a daisy before; what at a distance had been a plain white canvas became delicate stitches making up a tapestry of petals, the yellow pods rolling hills of sunshine. Its lush, bright scent enveloped her, drawing her deeper into the intricacies of the flower and its form.

Here, she saw it. She couldn't define "it." But she'd never been so certain that "it" was right here.

"What do you think?" Luka asked, gently.

And Miku held the flower close. "This is it. This is my ID."


The road led them back, silently, past all the empty places of Um. Even the wind knew nothing had to be said, now, and the still air warmed Miku for the entire walk.

In one hand she held the flower in a balled fist. Her other brushed against Luka's, fingers time to time grazing against one another.

The ghost at the station only nodded as Miku presented the daisy to the ticket counter, then waved her onto the platform. It was short, long enough for perhaps one car. Unlike the usual sunlight of Um, here night cloaked the station and tracks in ashen shadows.

"You're coming, too?" Miku asked Luka, not unpleasantly surprised.

"Of course," Luka said, still beside her. "Do you think they'd have let you on without me?"

Before she had time to think on it, the train announced itself with a piercing whistle and billowing blankets of steam. One car—without an engine—rolled upon the platform. Its doors opened to a sparse tram with carved seats illuminated by the faint, flickering light of suspended Tiffany lamps.

Nothing but a rolling mist stepped off.

"Come on," Luka said. "It'll depart soon."

They took a seat a few benches down from fainter shades, ones growing gray and transparent, and the wheels below clicked and clacked to life. The world rushed by the windows like pictures upon an unfurling scroll.

"I think I get it now," Miku said.

"Hm?"

"I get it. What it truly means to be remembered. How much more it is than just… being recognized."

"So, are you ready to return?"

A heaviness grew in Miku's body, but without pain. She let herself droop into her seat, accepting the exhaustion.

"I am. I don't want to stay forgotten."

Her head had buckled from the weight already. Resting on Luka's shoulder, she idly watched the painted scenery roll by, its colors begin to fade.

"You won't," Luka cooed. "It's always a new you. Always a new memory."

"Always," Miku said. But the strain had moved up her neck. Vision blurred as her lids fluttered under the pull.

"I'll remember this you. I'll treasure every facet of her."

A yawn escaped Miku's lips. She could not fight the temptation any longer. Nestled upon Luka's collar, she sensed the curtain of sleep fall before her eyes.

"Always…"


Miku's eyes snapped back open.

From the floor she groaned, clawing at the toppled chairs, the nearby wall. Her head ached with the clanging of a hundred pounding hammers. The rest of her felt stiff, tense and coiled up.

As the world restarted, a rhythmic whirring drilled into Miku's ears. Desperately she traced its origin, keenly aware it was from somewhere in the dressing room.

"Crap!" Miku shouted, lunging at the ringing cell phone.

Once she had her bearings, she read the caller ID. It was all the better she had waited to collect herself.

Luka. Incoming Call.

The name froze her heart, left a lump in her throat. It'd been so long since she read it on this phone, any phone.

She had half a thought to ignore it again. To let it ring and ring, to delete the inevitable voicemail.

To forget it all had happened.

"But that was her," Miku said to herself. "Not me. Not the girl from now."

She picked up.

"Hello?" she said.

"You actually answered."

Again her heart froze, dropped down her chest. How different it was to hear her live on the phone, not just on a song.

"I had some thinking to do," Miku said.

"Yeah. You and me both."

"I'm glad you kept calling. It gave me a chance to finally answer."

"I always knew you would."

"Even after how I ended it? After I said—"

Luka's laughter, bright and warm, cut her off. "I know you didn't mean it. And I still haven't burned out, you know."

"I do know. I was always happy for you. What you achieved without me."

"You say that like you were holding me back."

"Maybe I was. Maybe I was holding myself back, too."

"Do you want to change that?"

Another jolt ran through Miku—lively this time, a brighter spark.

"You still think we could?" she asked.

"It's up to the girl I'm talking to."

Tears welling up, Miku smiled, clutching the charm that dangled off her phone strap.

"I'd love to," she said through her sobs.

And her fingers wrapped tightly around flower-shaped charm, closing over the words on it:

Recognizing over 1,000,000 plays for

The song by performers MikuLuka:

Ai Dee


A/N:

Thanks to the amazing mrshatsune for the cover artwork for this piece!

This story was written for the Vocaloid zine Vocalostalgia, celebrating 20 years of Vocaloid goodness. If you enjoyed it, please check out the rest of the works for free on Itchio. (Find it by putting "vocalostalgia" before the usual Itchio address.)