Karin leaned closer. The pigments were lifting—vermillion flaking into dust, the charcoal underdrawing dissolving like smoke. But beneath the decay, she saw it: the ghost of a signature. Not the Edo painter’s. Rika’s own, hidden in the stamens of a flower.
“Because if you don’t,” Rika said, “my old buyer will find out I’m the forger. And he won’t call the museum. He’ll call a cleaner.” Tsubaki Rika Kitaoka Karin
Rika smiled without warmth. “My finest lie. But lies rot faster than silk. I need you to restore it—not to its fake glory, but to nothing . Erase it. Give the world an honest absence.” Karin leaned closer
She picked up her brush.