The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets still shimmered with reflections of the stars above. Toshio stood on his balcony, looking at the faint glow from Airi's window.
She was there again — her silhouette moving slowly across the curtains, the same quiet rhythm flowing from her piano.
But tonight, something was different.
The melody wasn't just sad. It was haunting. Like a cry wrapped in beauty.
Toshio closed his eyes and listened, every note digging into him. He could almost feel her pain — the loneliness behind her smile, the longing that clung to every sound.
He couldn't just stand there anymore.
Grabbing his hoodie, he rushed outside. The cold night air bit at his skin, but his heartbeat drowned everything else out. When he reached her gate, he hesitated — then called softly,
"Airi."
The music stopped.
A moment later, the door opened slightly. She appeared, still in her white dress, her fingers trembling faintly.
"Toshio?"
He nodded. "I know it's late, but… are you okay?"
She gave a small, brittle smile. "You shouldn't worry about me."
"I can't help it."
Airi looked away. "Why?"
"Because your music doesn't sound like something meant to be heard alone."
The silence that followed was fragile, almost painful. Then, without another word, she stepped aside.
"Come in."
Her house was quiet — too quiet. The only light came from a single lamp near the piano, casting golden warmth over everything.
On the wall hung old photographs — a younger Airi with a boy around her age, both smiling beneath the same cherry blossom tree.
Toshio paused, staring. "Who's that?"
Her expression darkened. "Someone I used to know."
"Used to?"
She nodded. "He was my childhood friend. He… he loved my music. But last year, there was an accident."
Her voice faltered.
Toshio swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."
She smiled faintly, eyes glimmering. "Don't be. I'm the one who should be sorry. I was the one playing that day."
The confession hit him like a whisper through glass.
Toshio stepped closer, gently placing a hand on the piano. "You play to remember him."
"No." Airi's eyes met his. "I play because I'm afraid to forget."
For a moment, the air between them felt electric — raw, real, and unbearably human.
Then, quietly, Toshio said, "Then let me remember with you."
She blinked. "What?"
"Every night you play, I'll listen. Until that sadness doesn't sound so lonely anymore."
Her lips parted — a soft, trembling breath escaping her. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Okay… it's a promise."
That night, the two of them sat by the piano under the moonlight. She played, and he listened — not as strangers anymore, but as two hearts quietly learning each other's pain.
As the final note faded, Airi looked at him and smiled — a real, fragile smile that felt like sunrise.
Toshio smiled back. "You know… I think I'm starting to understand your song."
She tilted her head. "And what does it say?"
He met her gaze, heart pounding.
"It says… I'm not alone anymore."