Sumireko's house creaked as we climbed the stairs. Afternoon light pressed hard against the hallway, but when she opened the door to her lab, it felt like stepping into another world.

It wasn't much like the labs at universities or schools. No white tiles, no lab coats. Just a converted room with stacks of bottles and powders on the shelves, a line of bookshelves on the wall, and one big desk in the center covered with glassware and stains from experiments long past.

"Stand over here," Sumireko said, already rolling her sleeves up. "And don't bump into anything. Some of this might actually go boom."

Merry and I stepped closer to the desk. The air smelled sharp, like metal and something burnt, with a hint of dust that no window had cleared out in weeks.

"You sure it's safe?" I asked.

"It's just luminol," she said, waving me off. "Luminol, a couple other reagents, hydrogen peroxide. Nothing that'll melt your face off. Probably."

That wasn't as comforting as she thought it was.

She went to the window and yanked the curtains shut. Sunlight sliced thinly, then vanished. The whole room collapsed into dark.

"Little dramatic, isn't it?"  I muttered.

"Necessary," she shot back.

There was a soft clink of glass, liquid pouring, the faint hiss of something stirred together. Merry leaned forward, eyes fixed on the shapes we couldn't see.

Then it happened.

The beaker in Sumireko's hands breathed blue.

It started soft, like a firefly. The liquid shimmered faintly, spilling light across her fingers, over the glass, out into the room. Merry's face caught the glow — her eyes, her cheek — lit like she belonged to the light itself.

"Wow..." I whispered.

"Told you," Sumireko said, her grin lit strange by the glow. "Not magic. Just chemistry."

The glow pulsed. Sometimes it swelled brighter, brushing the walls, shadows bending and stretching like they were alive. Then it sank back, as if it might die out completely, before struggling up again.

Merry tilted her head. "It looks like it's breathing."

"Or burning out," I said.

She gave a small hum. "Yeah. Like stars."

I frowned. "Stars?"

"They burn so bright you think they'll last forever. But they don't. They just fade into the dark again."

"...That's depressing."

"It's true though." She leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the trembling blue. "Maybe that's why they look so beautiful. Because you know they can't last."

Her voice wasn't heavy. More like she'd just thought of it and let it slip out. But the words sank into me all the same.

The glow flickered weaker. Sumireko swirled the beaker, but it only gave one last pulse before dimming.

"See?" she muttered. "Doesn't stay long."

And then it was gone.

Darkness rushed back, thicker than before. I blinked hard, chasing after the afterimage burned into my eyes. For a second, I could almost believe my hands were still glowing, though when I lifted them, they were only shadows again.

No one spoke. The air in the room felt heavy with the loss of it, as though something alive had just passed.

Outside, a crow cried once. The sound was sharp against the hush.

Then Sumireko sighed and pulled the curtains open. Daylight spilled in, flat and ordinary. The shelves were shelves again, the desk just a desk, crowded and scarred.

I squinted against the light, but part of me kept reaching for the blue, waiting for it to return. It didn't.

Merry stretched, her expression unreadable. "That's it then?"

"Yeah," Sumireko said, already clearing glassware. "Short-lived, but that's the point."

Merry nodded absently, as though she agreed, but her eyes were still caught on the place where the glow had been.

I stayed standing there, hands empty, feeling like the room still held its afterglow. The light had burned, brief and impossible, and then it was gone.

And maybe that was enough.