Chapter 1 : The boy who speaks in music

The sea never changed. Every morning in the small coastal town of Minato, the waves brushed against the shore like they were afraid to disturb the stillness. The salty breeze carried the scent of nostalgia, stirring the wildflowers growing along the hillside path. Children passed through the school gates laughing and shouting, chasing the morning sun. But for Ren Amamiya, the world was quieter. Simpler. And much, much lonelier. He walked to school with his headphones on—not playing music, just worn like armor. He liked the illusion of silence, the barrier it created. Most people didn’t talk to him, and that suited him just fine. Ren wasn’t unfriendly. Just… withdrawn. After all, it was easier to stay silent than to try and explain why his heart still ached every time he passed by a violin shop window. Or why he kept his sleeves rolled down, even in the heat. Or why he never talked about his family—not even to his teachers. At seventeen, he was a mystery. A boy of few words, even fewer friends, and haunting music that made people stop and listen—even if they never quite understood why. It was in the music room, tucked behind the main building and nearly forgotten by the rest of the school, that Ren truly came alive. The room smelled of old wood and sun-warmed dust. Its windows creaked when opened, and the grand piano hadn’t been tuned in years. But in the corner stood a lone chair and a violin stand—Ren’s sanctuary. Every day after class, he would slip away to this space. There, in the solitude between notes, he could breathe. Ren opened his violin case gently, like handling something sacred. The instrument inside was old but beautifully preserved, the wood rich with age, its strings taut and waiting. His grandfather had re-strung it with care. It had once belonged to Ren’s mother. Before the accident. Ren sat down, adjusted the chin rest, and placed the bow on the strings. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, like the hush before a storm, he began to play. The melody he coaxed from the violin wasn’t anything from a book. It was his own—unfinished, wandering. The tune rose and fell like the tide, soft in some places, aching in others. There were pauses—breaths held, memories surfacing, then fading again. It was a song without lyrics, yet it said everything he couldn’t. Every time he played, he felt her. His mother. Not in the room, but in the warmth of the sound, in the way the bow glided effortlessly like she’d taught him, long ago. Back when he wasn’t alone. When the final note faded, Ren let his hand drop. His eyes closed. The silence that followed was heavier than before. And then— Clap. Clap. Clap. The soft, deliberate sound of someone clapping behind him startled him. He whipped around. A girl stood at the door, smiling. She wore the same school uniform as him, though her skirt swayed in the breeze like it didn’t belong to the rest of the building’s worn reality. Her dark brown hair was pulled back loosely, a sunflower pin clipped on the side. Her eyes shimmered, not with laughter, but with something gentler—something quietly amused and curious. “Wow,” she said. “I didn’t know ghosts played music.” Ren blinked, stunned into complete stillness. “Sorry,” she added, stepping into the room with featherlight footsteps. “I got lost. Heard someone playing. Followed the sound.” He stared at her, his mouth slightly open, unsure whether to be annoyed or embarrassed. “I’m Yui Tachibana,” she said, holding out her hand with a grin. “You’re Ren, right? Music teacher told me about you. Said you were kind of a legend.” Ren looked at her hand, then back to her eyes. Slowly, awkwardly, he nodded, but didn’t shake it. She didn’t seem offended. “You don’t talk much, huh?” He shook his head. A little. “That’s okay. I talk enough for two,” she laughed, then her voice softened. “That song you were playing... it felt like someone was crying.” Ren’s eyes flickered. He hadn’t expected anyone to understand. Yui walked closer to the chair and looked at the sheetless music stand. “You wrote it, right? It didn’t sound like anything I’ve heard before. It was kind of... lonely.” Ren looked away. She leaned against the edge of the piano, her sunflower pin glinting in the late afternoon light. “Can I come back tomorrow? I promise not to talk. Just want to listen.” He hesitated. No one had ever asked that. People either ignored his music or praised it awkwardly and left. But Yui—Yui looked at it like it was a language she already spoke. Finally, he nodded. Her grin widened. “Thanks. See you, Ren.” And just like that, she walked away. Ren sat frozen for a while, fingers still resting on the violin. The strings hummed softly beneath his touch, as if they, too, were surprised. That evening, Ren walked home along the coast, his violin case strapped to his back. The setting sun dyed the sea orange, and the waves whispered secrets only the lonely could hear. His grandfather was outside, sitting on the porch carving a bridge piece from maple. “You were late,” the old man said without looking up. Ren nodded and sat down beside him. “You played today?” Another nod. “Good. Your mother would be proud. She used to say the violin doesn’t lie. It tells everything you hide.” Ren remained silent. After a pause, his grandfather added, “I heard you weren’t alone.” Ren looked up, startled. The old man chuckled. “This is a small town, Ren. News moves faster than fish in a current. Someone said a girl was near the music room.” Ren looked away, the faintest hint of color brushing his cheeks. “Well,” the grandfather said, smiling, “maybe it’s time your music had someone to listen to it.” That night, Ren couldn’t sleep. He kept hearing her voice—light, teasing, but gentle. And the way she’d said his music felt like someone crying. She hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t praised him just to be polite. She had listened. As the moon cast silver over the floor of his room, Ren sat at his desk, took out a blank sheet of paper, and began to write—carefully shaping each note of his unfinished song. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like composing for the dead. He was composing for someone still here.