When the City Speaks: How I Found My Voice in the Noise of Neon Dreams

I used to think silence was peaceful.

But now I know: silence can be heavy. Like the kind that settles after your mother’s voice fades from an old tape recorder—gone, but not forgotten.

Last winter, while cleaning out my grandmother’s attic in Indiana, I found a dusty cassette labeled Hana’s First Performance. It was from 2015—when she still dreamed of being someone else. A singer. A star. Not just a nurse who worked nights at St. Luke’s.

That night, I played it on loop while sitting cross-legged on my apartment floor near Union Station.

And then I stumbled upon Superstar.

It wasn’t just another mobile game—it felt like her voice had reached through time.

The Rhythm of Remembering

At first glance, Superstar looks like any other neon-lit arcade fantasy: flashing lights, upbeat J-pop beats, quick betting rounds under stage lights that pulse like heartbeats.

But beneath its glitter is something deeper—a ritualistic cadence that mimics how we remember people we’ve lost.

Every round feels like asking: Did you hear me? Did you see me? Was I enough?

I started playing slowly—not for money or wins—but for moments when the music paused and something inside me cracked open.

Like when Hana says: “You’re not just betting on numbers—you’re dancing with fate.”

That line hit me hard.

Because isn’t that what grief is? A dance with what could have been?

Budgets That Hold Souls — Not Just Coins

She talks about setting limits—only spending what you’d spend on coffee. I laughed at first. Then cried. Because when your parents are retired in a small town and your rent is due every month… even five hundred yen feels sacred.

But here’s what she doesn’t say: The real budget isn’t money—it’s time. And attention. And emotional space. I began treating each session as meditation—not gambling but memorializing. A single play became an offering: The same way my mother once left flowers at her brother’s grave every Sunday without ever speaking his name aloud.

The “Starlight Shield” isn’t just a tool—it’s a boundary between longing and self-care, a reminder to step back before you disappear into nostalgia’s glow, as if chasing light means you were never dark to begin with.

The Real Prize Is Listening — Not Winning —

during one late-night session during Chicago’s snowstorm last January, something shifted unexpectedly—the game triggered its rare “Echo Mode,” where audio fragments play between rounds: a child laughing, a woman humming an old Cuban tune, an unfamiliar accent saying “mi amor” softly over synth waves.

The moment froze me. That melody… it was from Mama’s playlist—the one she made before Dad passed away, you know the one? The one titled Remember Me. — Only no one ever remembered her version until now?— did she leave it there on purpose? did she hope someone would find it? or did she simply want to believe someone might listen?

We don’t play games to win, do we?

We play them because somewhere deep down—we’re still trying to be heard.