Chapter XXIV - Something Worth Breaking For

9 Years Ago. Kagami Household.

"What do you want to be, Shouma?"

I never really had an excellent memory, in my opinion. I was prone to forgetting even essential things if I'm really focused enough, and more often than not, I would spend entire days in a mental daze where go through the motions rather than engage presently with the things at hand.

But, sometimes, certain events would remain in my mind. And in some cases, they would remain for as long as I live.

This question, gentle yet deliberate, like the first notes of a sonata, was one of those events.

We sat at the grand piano in our old living room as the late afternoon sunlight poured through tall windows and caught the dust motes that danced in an animated suspension above the polished wood. The piano keys gleamed in ivory beneath her hands, which always reminded me of birds in flight—graceful, precise, and powerful.

I was eight years old, small enough that my feet dangled above the floor when I sat on the bench beside her. My mother—Kagami Yoshiko, whose name appeared in concert programs across Japan and occasionally beyond—was showing me a simple melody. My clumsy fingers stumbled over the keys, producing sounds that only a mother could forgive. But she was patient with me, as always, guiding my hands and encouraging me to try again. Her smile was gentle, but there was a quiet determination in her eyes that suggested this wasn't a mere pastime for her.

It was what made her whole.

And I wanted to feel that too.

"I wanna be a pianist, just like you!"

It was a declaration that only children could make, a simple statement of desire without consideration of the cost or the journey. I didn't know yet what it meant to be a pianist—what it would take to stand on the same stage as her, to feel that sense of purpose that she radiated every time her hands touched the keys.

Though, because I didn't know the cost of reaching such a goal, it was simultaneously the purest declaration that one could ever make.

To that, she giggled. She laughed giggled, a sound like water flowing over smooth stones. Not mocking, never that, but filled with something I couldn't name at that age—perhaps tenderness mixed with a quiet melancholy I wouldn't understand until much later.

"Are you sure? Being a pianist means practicing every day, even when you're tired... Especially when you're tired. Even when your friends are playing outside."

"I'm sure!"

"Why?" she pressed, her green eyes—the exact shade I inherited—surveying my face gently. "There are many other things you could be."

I could distinctly remember furrowing my brow, considering this question with all the seriousness a seven-year-old could muster. The truth was simple and absolute in my mind.

"Because when you play, Mom, it makes people happy. It makes them cry sometimes, but the good kind of crying."

Mother blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then laughed.

Her laughter was like the notes that came from the piano, a sound that filled the room, that echoed off the high ceiling and mingled with the motes of dust still dancing in the air. Soon, she recollected herself, and her hand gently touched my cheek.

"Yes... that's exactly right." The words were tender, almost a whisper.

Her hand dropped from my cheek and found mine, placing my fingers on the keyboard again.

"Music has the power to touch the soul in a way that nothing else can. It's the voice of the heart, and it can speak to anyone, anywhere, if you play it with enough feeling. It's the ultimate connector which bridges the gap between people and places. No matter whether you're from Yokohama like us, Brazil, or even Italy... our ears are the same, and we all feel the same when the right chords strike us."

As she spoke, she began to play a simple melody, one that I knew well. It was a piece by Schumann, one of her favorites, and she played it often.

"As a pianist—no—as a musician, we play to make people happy, to make them feel, and to give them a chance to escape their own minds. But also..."

The piece of Schumann’s she was playing, Träumerei, embodied tragedy in its purest form. Although composed during a peaceful period of the composer's life, long before his descent into madness and institutionalization, later listeners have imbued the piece with the weight of tragedy. And yet... as she played it, it reflected a different sort of meaning when played by a musician of her caliber. It didn't make you feel sad, but made you think of the memories you had in the past. It was nostalgic in nature, and through the keys of a piano, she told me a story of her own past.

She seamlessly integrated her own narrative into the music, weaving memories of her first recital, the struggle of learning the instrument, and the triumph of her first performance with a symphony orchestra. She also spoke of her teachers, the great musicians who had guided her, and the friends she'd made along the way.

Without even speaking a word, feelings that would have never reached me became a beautiful tale to my ears.

"When we perform, as much as we do it for the audience—for the people out there who are hurting, who are searching, or who just want to be taken away from their lives for a moment... your composition is also your tale. It is the voice of your heart, and you can speak through the piano to connect yourself to the audience. As long as you're playing with enough feeling, anyone will hear and feel the same thing you are feeling. Anyone will know and understand the pain you are in, and the joy that you wish to express."

I didn't fully grasp what she meant then. How could I? I was a child who still believed that louder was always better, that faster meant more skilled. But I nodded anyway, desperate to understand, to please her, to somehow absorb her wisdom through proximity alone.

But... I think I could understand at least that:

"Piano is so friggin' cool!!!"

"Ahahaha! You're not wrong!" Mom replied to my beaming with one of her own. "Let's try Ode to Joy again, okay?"

"Yeah!"

And to that, she scooted off the piano bench, and I took her place.

"Like I said, we'll be trying this again. But this time, listen to what you're playing. Really listen." she instructed, pointing to the beginning of the score.

Silently, I played the piece again, concentrating so hard that my tongue poked out from between my lips. The notes came out cleaner this time, with fewer mistakes, but something was still missing.

"Shouma, close your eyes," she suggested.

"But then I can't see the keys!"

"You don't need to see them. You need to feel them. Let your fingers find the notes. And while you're doing that, listen. Listen to every sound, every note, every chord. Listen to the music."

I did as I was told, hesistantly closing my eyes and letting my fingers find their way across the black and white landscape. The world narrowed to the sensation of smooth ivory beneath my fingertips, with the subtle resistance of the keys as I pressed them, the vibrations that traveled up my arms as the strings inside the piano resonated endlessly.

And suddenly, somehow, the music changed. It wasn't perfect—far from it—but for the first time playing the song, I didn't FEEL like I was simply recalling what I read from the sheet music. It felt like I was actually playing the song. Note after note, measure after measure, I found the music. As I did, it stirred in me, a sense of wonder and discovery that was essentially dopamine to my childlike brain. And that feeling kept on building, and building, and building...

Until I finished, my chest heaving, a sense of elation bubbling up inside me that I could hardly contain.

"There you are, Shouma."

It was merely a whisper, but it was as if she'd just discovered something precious that had been hidden in plain sight all along.

"You felt it, didn't you?"

"Yeah... I felt it," I whispered back, a smile creeping across my face. "It was so cool."

"I know."

"Can we do it again?"

"Always, my little dreamer."

And so, we did. We played the piece over and over, each time a little smoother, each time a little closer to the heart of the music. We played until the afternoon sunlight turned to the warm glow of dusk, and the dust motes were caught in a dance of gold and amber. We played until our fingers ached, and the melody was ingrained in our memory as deeply as our own names.

That was the first time I had truly experienced the music, a gift that my mother would bestow upon me many times in the years to come.

Up until the day it all ended.