The sky draped over the city like a shroud. In the streets, lost as if in a labyrinth, neither color nor scent remained. Everything had been silenced. The air was dry, the stillness sticky. The parched earth fought for survival. All that remained was a command echoing from digital panels:
"Only voices approved by the state may sing."
Each word scraped against the eardrums, suppressing thought. The frequency of emotions was a crime; the touch of melodies on memory, a threat.
Mizue quickened her steps with all her strength. As she peered through the dust-covered glass, a weight pressed on her chest. Even breathing felt like a crime. The knot in her throat held the first note of a song that hadn't been sung in years. She brought her hands to her heart. Her fingers trembled. Itsuki approached silently, his guitar strings wrapped in worn bindings—just like his own wounds. He looked into Mizue's eyes but said nothing.
In that moment, the old song within Mizue surged up to her throat. She tried to suppress it.
It didn't work.
The voice found its own way. When the first syllable slipped from her lips, time slowed. Raindrops hung suspended in the air. Mizue's eyes widened. Itsuki's guitar trembled. The earth felt the sound.
They understood.
This was no ordinary voice.
Yes, it was forbidden. But it was also a reminder. It whispered of lost colors, suppressed emotions, a silenced past.
The song, which had once begun with the soprano of her mother, now rose from within Mizue like a new life. And the city, for the first time in ages, began to breathe.
As fine droplets fell from the sky, the scent of the soil returned. And at that very moment, a lotus bloomed between the cracks of the sidewalk.
A Few Days Earlier
Deep within the hidden shelter, the air was thick with the smell of rust and dampness. Shadows danced on the walls whenever the electricity flickered—a reverberation of the past.
Mizue had come following an encrypted note sent only to trusted recipients. At the end of the note, a single symbol was hand-drawn: a broken musical note.
The door creaked open. A young man entered, carrying an old guitar case on his back. His eyes were cautious but not surprised. At first glance, Mizue had thought him ordinary—until she noticed the metal soil emblem engraved on the neck of his guitar...
"You're one of those who haven't forgotten the voice too?"
Itsuki spoke in a low voice. Mizue didn't respond. She took a step back.
"Who gave you this address?"
Itsuki shrugged.
"Didn't you summon me?"
Silence.
Itsuki pulled a small card from his pocket. On the corner of the note, written in a nearly exhausted pencil:
"Only those who hear your heart can truly understand you."
Itsuki sighed.
"I found this in my bag. I… I just came. My voice… my family… they were harmed. If this is a trap, it's still worth trying."
Mizue's face darkened. She approached slowly.
"I can trust no one."
Itsuki drew his guitar. The strings were old, but its spirit was fresh. He touched them lightly with his fingers. Stones trembled beyond the wall. Mizue watched intently.
"I can hear the earth. The real voices. I heard your voice too. Last night, in the rain."
Mizue's expression froze. She spoke with effort:
"Are there others who know?"
"Yes. Makoto."
"Makoto? Now it makes sense. He's the one who brought us together."
"So you know him too. That should ease your mind."
Mizue and Itsuki had to use their time wisely. They needed to work together until Makoto joined them without attracting the attention of state agents. They could not overcome the obstacles before them alone. Rhythm.
Time. Strategy.
Without Makoto, this song could not be completed.
What was Makoto's plan? The next chapter awaits with new questions.