I vaguely remembered the stories about Kazuha's family, especially since rumors regarding her brother, Chiko, had recently been circulating at school.
But I perfectly remembered when I pretended to be her boyfriend to escape the fury of her father and his "gang." Despite that, I was still worried about what that message implied.
'What does she mean with "I've just finished working?"' I asked myself, while my mind filled with intrusive and… vulgar thoughts. But then I remembered what kind of person Kazuha was; even though I hadn't known her for long, she always seemed like a very nice person, especially considering the help she had given me.
Kazuha's reply arrived almost immediately. "Yes, I had the night shift today to help my father. It was my turn, unfortunately… but luckily I managed to rest for a few hours. So, where should we meet? At Sakura Brew Haven?" the message read.
Part of me wanted to tell her to reschedule so she could sleep, but the other part was curious and worried about what she wanted to tell me, so…
"We could meet there, but I was on my way to the music store this morning to pick up a music notebook. I was planning to go back to writing music today. How about coming along? The shop is about a six-minute walk from the Sakura. It's the only music shop in this part of the city, you can check the position on the GPS." And… tap. Message sent.
I was still standing by the vending machine, waiting for Kazuha to confirm.
Then, the phone buzzed.
"Uhhh! Music? Sounds interesting. I'm in. I'll meet you directly there." The reply after a few minutes.
"See you there then, I'm heading out," I replied, starting my walk toward the shop.
And so, step by step, hands in pockets and eyes almost locked on the ground, I walked for about twenty minutes.
I could have taken a taxi, but I didn't feel like it. In that moment, I felt a strange need to distance myself from my house and just walk, as if I didn't want to interact with anyone.
The fresh spring morning air brushed against my face, and it was always a beautiful sensation.
I couldn't hide the fact that even though I tried to distract myself, my thoughts always drifted back to Ema, as I walked with her almost every morning.
Every now and then my heart would flutter, but not with pleasure. It was as if someone was squeezing it in a small grip, just for an instant. I couldn't help it. I could only rely on my solitude.
Occasionally, I caught the sweet scent of bakeries and the sound of children laughing and playing in a small green park along the road. Nostalgic sounds that made me realize how fast time had flown.
After a while, I arrived at my destination.
The music and instrument shop, called "The Great Ensemble by Kaito Nakamura," was right in front of me.
This was the trusted shop where my father bought the piano I still use today.
Such nostalgia.
I perfectly remember his words when he bought it. "I have a strong feeling you have the soul of an artist, and I'm sure this will help your happiness." And he was right. Music was the only thing that had always been there.
My lips involuntarily curved into a small, nostalgic smile. I sighed and said silently to myself: "If only you were here, Dad… you would definitely know what to tell me."
At that exact moment, while I was distracted and lost in my thoughts, I heard a female voice coming from my left calling my name. "Fumihiro!" it said, in an almost breathless tone.
I turned and finally saw Kazuha.
The first thing I noticed was her appearance.
Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a few rebellious strands framing her pale face. The light but distinct dark circles under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion—a bluish mark of forced wakefulness. She was dressed simply and hurriedly: a t-shirt with a faded anime print, a black hoodie thrown over it, and comfortable sweatpants. She looked like she had snuck out of the house on tiptoe.
"Good morning, Kazuha," I said neutrally.
"Ah… P-pardon the delay…" she panted, resting a hand on her hip.
"Don't worry, I just got here," I stepped closer. "Are you alright? Would you like some water?"
Kazuha shook her head. "No, no, I'm fine. I'm just a bit out of shape... haha..." Then her gaze slid past me toward the shop window and stayed pinned there.
Her eyes, which a moment ago were clouded by fatigue, widened. It wasn't just admiration. It was an instinctive recognition, a sudden hunger.
Her eyes fixed on a light-wood violin displayed in the center, illuminated by a spotlight. She looked at it with the intensity of someone seeing water in the desert. That violin seemed to suck all the light out of the room, and with it, every trace of her tiredness.
"W-Wow," she whispered, her voice a mere thread. "I pass by here all the time, but… I never stopped to look." She turned to me, and for the first time, I saw an expression of pure, uncontaminated wonder in her.
"It's… beautiful." she said.
I smiled at her—a real smile that, for a moment, silenced the buzz of my thoughts. "Yeah. This place has that power. Every time I come here, it's like the first time," I said. "Shall we go in?"
Kazuha nodded, a quick and decisive gesture.
I opened the door, waiting for her to step inside, and then I followed.
The air inside "The Great Ensemble" was always the same: a warm embrace of cedar wood, animal glue, and ancient dust.
Kazuha stood breathless on the threshold. The instruments hanging on the walls, the shiny pianos, the suspended guitars—everything seemed to create a silent symphony. But her eyes went straight as an arrow back to that violin in the window.
"Well, look who's back! Hello, Fumihiro!" An elderly and gentle voice called me.
I turned, and the wrinkled face of Mr. Nakamura greeted me like the old cover of a book I hadn't read in years. He still wore the same glue-stained apron, and his gaze held the look of someone who could read woodgrain better than people.
"Mr. Nakamura," I began, hearing the weight in my own voice. "I hope I'm not disturbing you too early."
"Nonsense, boy. For the son of an old friend, the door is always open. Although..." His small, intelligent eyes slid past my shoulder and settled on Kazuha. "I see you haven't come to keep your ghosts company alone today." He added, referring to the times when I used to come play all the pianos in this store.
Kazuha gave a slight start, as if she'd been caught doing something forbidden. She cleared her throat, trying to straighten her back despite the exhaustion that weighed on her shoulders like lead.
"Good morning," she said, with a note of shyness I had never heard from her before.
She seemed stripped of all that "tough girl" armor she usually wore. Here, amidst the scent of rosin and seasoned wood, she was just a tired girl with eyes that were too large.
"This is Kazuha," I added, almost as if wanting to shield her from his searching gaze.
Old Mr. Nakamura said nothing for a few seconds. He moved closer to the counter, his gaze moving to her dark circles and then the violin in the display case—the one Kazuha had virtually left her fingerprints on with her eyes.
Mr. Nakamura emerged from the back room, his leather apron stained with varnish and glue like a map of creative battles. His cordial smile dimmed slightly as his expert gaze moved from me to Kazuha.
He didn't just see a tired girl. He saw something else.
Then, Mr. Nakamura stared at Kazuha with a look that seemed to dig into her, he added: "You have the eyes of someone who is hungry, little lady. But not the hunger of someone who wants to eat. The hunger of someone who has forgotten the taste of something they loved, and suddenly smells it again."
I was actually surprised by his words.
He had probably noticed something that I didn't.
"You clearly want to play that violin, don't you?" Mr. Nakamura said with a very gentle smile. "You have the same look of this guy when he sees a piano." He added, referring to me.
"Uhm..." I muttered, in an almost embarassed voice, scratching the back of my head.
Kazuha looked down, fiddling with the frayed hem of her hoodie. "I… I haven't played in years," she murmured, her voice so low I had to move closer to hear. "In my family, certain passions… are considered a luxury. A weakness."
My eyes widened. "Kazuha? You used to play violin? Are you for real?!" I asked, very surprised by her 'confession'.
A small blush appeared on her face as she looked away for an instant.
The only thing she said was only a very small nod.
Nakamura didn't speak. With a slow and deliberate gesture, he unlocked the display case. His hands, gnarled and strong, grabbed the violin she was looking at with a delicacy that contradicted their appearance. He didn't give it to me. He held it out directly to Kazuha, holding it by the neck as one offers a sword, or an inheritance.
"This violin," he said simply, "has been waiting for a long time. Nobody had ever bought it. They always said that it sounded 'strange'. But I prefere to call it 'special'." He said, with a gentle voice. "I always had the feeling that one day, this one would've found someone just like him." He added, still holding the violin.
Kazuha hesitated. Her fingers trembled in the air between them. She looked at me, and in her eyes was a storm: desire, fear, a profound disbelief. She was looking for permission, a boundary.
"Take it, Kazuha," I told her, my voice surprising me with its firmness. "There's nothing wrong to give it a try."
Nakamura nodded, and when he spoke, his words resonated like an echo from the past. "Your father always said one thing, Fumihiro. He said that instruments don't wait for people. They wait for the moment. The moment when a person is finally ready to tell themselves a truth they've kept hidden for too long."
Those words acted on Kazuha like a key in a rusty lock. She reached out and her fingers closed around the violin's fingerboard. She tucked it under her chin with a movement that, despite her insecurity, held an echo of muscle memory. She closed her eyes.
When the bow touched the strings, it was as if the world held its breath.
The first note was a sigh, a stifled lament.
Then, like a stream finding its way after a winter of ice, the music began to flow. The notes became more confident, clearer.
"Oh! You're pretty good at this!" Nakamura said, surprised.
Kazuha smiled and kept playing, completely immersed in her own world.
I was listening carefully. The sound of that vioilin was... particular. Too beautiful and sweet to explain.
It was a sweet, melancholy melody that danced between the chords with a familiarity that pierced my chest.
Kazuha started to play like a real artist. A professional one.
It was "Lonely."
The lullaby my father used to whistle when I was little. The tune I used to hum to myself in the yard. The backbone of the first composition I had ever written on the piano, years later. A piece I had never played for anyone. How did she know it?
The déjà vu wasn't just an impression. It was an explosion.
The scent of cedar wood transformed into the smell of the wood of the old gazebo in the garden. The warm light of the shop became the sun filtered through the curtains of my childhood bedroom.
Kazuha's silhouette with the violin overlapped, for a fraction of a second, with the blurred and repressed image of a dark-haired little girl, sitting on a stool that was too high, moving the bow with clumsy determination.
Then, the pain. Not a simple headache. It was as if a wedge of ice had been driven into my temple, followed by a wave of fire. I groaned, an animal and muffled sound, as my hands pressed against my skull. My vision shattered into a whirlwind of white flashes and static noise. The music—her music—stopped in a sharp screech.
"Fumihiro!"
Kazuha's voice was distant, distorted. I felt her hand, cold and trembling, grab my arm. "What is it? What's happening to you?"
"Hey, boy, What's wrong?!" Nakamura's voice, much closer and more pragmatic, cut through the panic. A glass of cold water was pressed into my fingers. "Drink. Small sips."
Swallowed with difficulty, the liquid seemed to calm the fire in my brain, reducing it to a dull, throbbing ache. The shop came back into focus. I was bent double, leaning against the counter, sweating and shaking.
"S-Sorry," I managed to stammer, my voice breaking. "I don't know what… just a sudden headache. Terrible." It was a pathetic lie, and we all knew it.
Kazuha was deathly pale, even more so than before. She held the violin as if it were an explosive relic, her eyes full of guilty horror. "Did I… did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you? Forgive me, I don't even know why I did it, it's as if my hands…" Kazuha spoke like she knew what she did.
"No," I interrupted, straightening up with effort. The smile I attempted was a grimace. "It was… a coincidence. Accumulated fatigue. Really." I knew I wasn't convincing anyone, not even myself.
Nakamura watched me. Not with concern, but with a concentrated, grave attention. He gently took the violin from Kazuha's hands and placed it back in the case, closing the lock with a definitive click.
"Sometimes," he said without looking at us, busy tidying some sheet music, "melodies are like keys. They open rooms in the memory that we have sometimes walled up for a good reason." Then he turned, and his gaze was that of a man seeing a storm on the horizon. "Your father told me something similar once, Fumihiro. Shortly before…"
He stopped, shaking his head. "Go, boy. Take your things and go get that coffee. You need air. And maybe… to have a little talk."
After his words, I calmed down and then paid for the music notebook I needed in a tomb-like silence. The sound of the money exchanged felt deafening. As Nakamura handed me the bag, he gave me a pat on the shoulder. It wasn't a gesture of comfort. It was a warning.
We stepped out.
The fresh spring air hit me, but it couldn't wash away the feeling that I had left something fundamental inside that shop—something ancient and dangerous.
We walked toward Sakura Brew Haven, side by side, but separated by an abyss of unspoken questions.
The silence between us was thick, palpable, steeped in the notes of "Lonely" that still buzzed in my ears and the ghost of a little girl with a violin that my mind refused to recognize.
Every step on the sidewalk amplified the question burning in my throat: 'Kazuha, who are you really? And how many things did you know about my father?'
And, above all else: 'what truth had just begun to play before my past rebelled to silence it?'