The next few days passed like a dream — a soft, strange, beautiful rhythm that Toshio couldn't escape.
Every morning, the sun would slip through his curtains, and the same sound would greet him: the faint, familiar notes of her piano.
He didn't know when she started playing or when she stopped. All he knew was that whenever the melody drifted through his window, the world outside seemed to pause.
It was like the universe was holding its breath — listening.
Toshio's mother peeked into his room one morning, finding him sitting by the window again, half-dressed for school."You're staring at that house again," she teased with a knowing smile.
He startled. "What—no, I was just—uh—thinking!"
"Thinking about a girl, maybe?"
His ears turned red instantly. "Mom!"
She laughed, leaving a lunchbox on his desk. "Be careful, Shinji. The quiet ones are always the dangerous ones."
He groaned. "You're not helping."
When she left, he glanced outside again — and there she was.
The girl from next door, standing by her window, hair tied in a loose ribbon, the morning breeze brushing against her cheeks. She was looking straight at him.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then she raised her hand slightly — a small, shy wave.
He waved back.
Just like that, something inside him clicked.
Later that afternoon, Toshio decided to do something bold. He walked to her house, heart pounding, and knocked on the gate.
No answer.
He was about to leave when he heard the door creak open.
The girl stepped out, dressed in a soft white blouse and denim skirt, sunlight outlining her in gold.For a moment, Toshio forgot how to speak.
"Um, hey. I'm Shinji — Toshio Shinji," he said, scratching his head nervously. "I live next door."
"I know," she said quietly. "You listen to my music every day."
He winced. "Right… sorry if that's weird. It's just—your music feels like it's calling me. Like it's trying to say something."
The girl blinked, surprised by his words. Then, almost reluctantly, she smiled.
"I'm Airi," she said. "Airi Hoshizora."
Airi.The name echoed softly in his mind, fitting perfectly with her voice — gentle, fleeting, impossible to forget.
They talked for a while — about small things, meaningless things — yet every word felt alive.
Toshio learned that Airi had lived there her whole life. She didn't go out much, preferring to stay home and play her piano. She liked early mornings, quiet streets, and strawberry milk.
He told her about moving often, never staying in one place long enough to make real friends.
"You must be lonely," she said softly.
He shrugged. "Maybe. But… I don't feel lonely when I hear you play."
Her cheeks flushed, the faintest pink coloring her skin. "That's… kind of unfair," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because you don't even know what I'm playing for."
"Then tell me," Toshio said, smiling. "Maybe I'll understand."
Airi hesitated, her gaze falling to the ground. "It's a song for someone who's gone. Someone I can't let go of."
The words hung between them like fragile glass.
He wanted to ask more — who it was, what had happened — but something in her eyes stopped him.
Instead, he said, "Then maybe I'll just keep listening… until I do understand."
Airi looked at him for a long time — as if trying to decide whether to let him in or push him away. Finally, she nodded.
"Okay," she said softly. "But once you understand… don't hate me for it."
That night, the melody changed.
It wasn't the same as before — it was slower, deeper, full of emotion that made Toshio's chest ache.
He sat by the window again, listening.
The moon hung low, casting pale light over both their houses. Through the glass, he saw Airi's silhouette at the piano, her hands trembling slightly as she played.
And in that moment, Toshio realized something:
The melody wasn't just reaching out.
It was calling for help.