At first, Clara needed a screen. Then she needed less. A song left someone’s phone and entered a bus. A name appeared on a bathroom mirror in handwriting that suggested urgency more than talent. A blonde wig crossed a party without Clara inside it. Nobody seemed troubled by this.
People sang what they remembered and invented the rest with confidence. They wore her on cotton, copied her pearls, danced in public with the grave joy of those who had recently discovered belonging. A sticker survived rain on a lamppost. A T-shirt passed through a crowd like a small official announcement.
By evening, television had questions. Was Clara Nocturne real? Was she artificial? Was she a woman, a system, a rumour with excellent lighting? The anchor asked carefully, as if reality might sue.
No one answered. The chorus kept travelling. Someone filmed a house that was not hers. Someone else said they had seen her once, then admitted it may have been a mannequin.
The wig was found again later, slightly improved by doubt.
Broadcast ongoing. Record incomplete.