Chapter XXXI - Something Worth Breaking For (VIII)

Minazuki-san nodded, finally retreating to a more respectable distance, though not as far as before.

"I'm really not very good at this...."

"At what?"

"This. Friendship. Apologies. Normal human interaction."

"Eh, friend?"

"Don't interrupt, idiota. I'm trying to have a moment here."

I bit back a smile.

"Right. Well, you're doing fine. The gauze and ointment was a nice touch. Though... if you really wanted to be a good friend, you'd kiss me on the cheek and make it feel better."

She punched my shoulder, almost hard enough to bruise.

"Why are you hitting me if you wanted to apologize?! And you told me to not interrupt!"

"Because you're an idiota. And you deserved it. Maybe I should have done it harder."

"I take it all back. You're terrible at this. I thought Italian girls were supposed to be loving and sweet!"

And I thought Japanese boys were supposed to be noninsuferrable and smart."

"We can't all live up to stereotypes, but you could have at least kissed me on the cheek like the girls of your culture do to others..."

"..."

"I'm kidding. It's not like I've been kissed on the cheek by any girls before anyway."

"..."

"..."

"Kagami, you're such a loser."

I couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up at her exasperated smile.

A comfortable silence settled between us again. On impulse, I reached into my bag and pulled out the plain onigiri I'd grabbed from the Sunrise Mart earlier, offering half to her.

"I don't need your charity," she said reflexively, then winced at her own sharpness. "Sorry. Old habits."

"Sharing. Not charity," I clarified, extending the food once more.

She looked at the offered food for a long moment before accepting it with a small nod.

"I have something to share too, actually."

From her own bag, she produced a familiar package—the imported Italian cookies from Sunrise Mart. The sight of them made something warm unfold in my chest.

"You remembered," I said softly.

"They're just cookies, Kagami. Don't read too much into it."

But the slight coloring of her cheeks suggested otherwise.

We ate together as darkness claimed the sky, stars emerging overhead, distant and cold but somehow comforting in their constancy. The city lights began to flicker on below us, creating a terrestrial mirror to the heavens above.

"Do you think you'll ever play the piano again?" she asked after a while.

I considered the question, finding to my surprise that it didn't bring the immediate surge of pain I'd expected.

"...I don't know. Today was the first time I've touched a piano in five years. It felt... both terrible and right, somehow. Like reopening an old wound to finally let it heal properly."

She nodded as if this made perfect sense to her.

"Music is like that sometimes. It finds the broken places inside you and either makes them worse or begins to mend them. There's no in-between."

"Is that how it is for you when you sing?"

Her gaze promptly turned distant.

"Something like that. Singing is... complicated for me. It's both escape and prison. Freedom and chain."

"Because of your mother?"

"What do you know about my mother?" she sharply questioned.

"Only her name," I admitted. "Violetta Minazuki. You mentioned she wrote 'Echi Perduti.'"

"Yes. She did."

"She must be very talented."

"She is," Minazuki-san confirmed, then added with a bitterness that seemed to surprise even her, "Everyone says so."

There was clearly a deeper story there, but the tension in her posture warned me against prying further. Instead, I asked, "What does 'Echi Perduti' mean? I tried looking it up, but my Italian is nonexistent."

"'Lost Echoes,'" she translated, her voice softening on the words. "It's about voices that never reach their intended listeners, feelings that go unexpressed, connections that almost form but never quite do."

"That's... sad."

"Most beautiful things are."

The simple truth of this observation struck me with unexpected force. Beauty and sadness, joy and pain, life and death—all intertwined, inseparable. Like my memories of the piano, of my mother, which contained both the purest happiness and the deepest grief.

"Speaking of which," Minazuki-san continued, reaching into her bag once more. "I have something else for you."

She withdrew a folded sheaf of papers, passing them to me without meeting my eyes. I opened them carefully, squinting in the fading light to make out what they contained.

Sheet music. For "Echi Perduti." Arranged for piano.

"Where did you get this?" I asked, my voice hardly above a whisper.

"I had it with me," she replied, deliberately casual. "My mother sent sheets of all her compositions when I first moved here. Some misguided attempt at connection, I guess. This one was arranged for piano accompaniment with vocals."

I stared at the notes spanning across the pages, unable to find words adequate to express what the gesture meant to me.

"You don't have to play it," she added quickly. "I just thought... if you wanted to try again someday... you should have something worth playing."

My fingers traced the notes, feeling the texture of the paper, the slight indentations of the printed staves. An offering. A bridge. A possibility.

"Thank you," I said finally, knowing the words were insufficient but having nothing better to offer.

She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the weight of the moment. "It's just paper."

But we both knew it was more than that.

She stood abruptly, moving to the opposite railing and withdrawing a packet of cigarettes from her blazer pocket. The flame of her lighter briefly illuminated her face, casting dramatic shadows that emphasized the angles of her cheekbones, the set of her jaw. She inhaled deeply, the ember at the cigarette's tip glowing red in the gathering darkness.

"You shouldn't smoke," I said, the words escaping before I could consider them. "It's terrible for your voice."

"Maybe I want it to be terrible," she replied, exhaling a stream of smoke that dissipated in the evening breeze. "Maybe I want it to go away."

There was such naked vulnerability in the admission that it took my breath away. This girl who seemed so untouchable, so above the petty concerns that plagued ordinary humans, suddenly revealing a wound as raw and deep as my own.

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my pocket. The screen illuminated with a message from Mizushima-san at Sunrise Mart:

Emergency shift coverage needed! Kokonoe called out AGAIN. Can you come in?

I sighed, sliding the phone back into my pocket. "I have to go. Work emergency."

Minazuki-san nodded, still facing away from me, her silhouette outlined against the city lights. "Go, then."

I hesitated, reluctant to leave this fragile moment of connection, afraid we might never find our way back to it.

"Minazuki-san..."

"Just go, Kagami," she said, but there was no sharpness in her tone. "I'll be fine."

I gathered my things slowly, placing the sheet music in my bag with careful reverence. As I turned to leave, I paused at the rooftop door, looking back at her solitary figure against the darkening sky.

"What if I don't want it to go away?" I asked softly.

She remained motionless, giving no indication that she'd heard me. But as I stepped through the doorway, I thought I caught her whispered reply, carried on the evening breeze:

"Then don't let it."

I descended the stairs, the sheet music a comforting weight in my bag, its presence a promise—or perhaps a challenge—that I wasn't entirely sure I was ready to accept. But for the first time in years, the thought of playing again didn't fill me with dread.

It filled me with possibility.