Chapter 2 :The girl who counts silence

The next day arrived wrapped in overcast skies and the gentle scent of rain. Minato was the kind of town where clouds rolled in slow, like they were hesitant to disturb the peace. For most students, it was just another Thursday. For Ren Amamiya, it was different. He didn’t rush to school. He never did. But that morning, he found himself walking faster. Not quite running—but not his usual unhurried pace either. His fingers tapped anxiously at the side of his bag, brushing the edges of his violin case as if to make sure it hadn’t vanished overnight. He hadn’t dreamt her, had he? Yui Tachibana. The name lingered in his thoughts like the final note of a song—unresolved, echoing, soft. He hadn’t meant to let her in. Not into his sanctuary. Not into his music. But she had walked in anyway—with sunflowers in her hair and eyes full of quiet understanding—and somehow, the silence felt different now. In class, Ren sat in his usual seat by the window, pretending to take notes as the teacher droned on about classical literature. But his gaze drifted to the seat across the room, now occupied by her. Yui sat with one cheek resting on her palm, staring out the window. She wasn’t taking notes either. Occasionally, her fingers moved, as if counting invisible things. Seconds? Thoughts? The beats of a song no one else could hear? When she noticed him looking, she smiled. He immediately looked down at his notebook, heart thudding like an offbeat drum. After school, Ren was already unlocking the music room door when he heard footsteps behind him. “Told you I’d come back.” He turned. Yui was there, her bag slung over one shoulder, a small box of juice in her hand. The sunflower pin was gone today, replaced by a blue ribbon tied loosely around her ponytail. “You always this punctual?” she teased. Ren gave a tiny shrug, then opened the door. She followed him in. As he set up the violin, Yui didn’t speak. She sat on the floor this time, leaning back against the piano, legs crossed. She sipped her juice and waited like a seasoned concertgoer. Ren felt the weight of her presence behind him—warm, curious, but not demanding. He lifted the bow. Drew a breath. And played. This time, the music was gentler. More cautious. But richer, somehow. He played the same melody he’d written the day before, only now he let it wander further. He let it ask questions, hesitate at the edge of certain notes, then resolve them delicately. He played as if Yui might answer—not with words, but just by being there. When he finished, he didn’t turn around. He just waited. There was silence for a moment. Then she said, “That one felt like walking through a memory you don’t know how to let go of.” Ren blinked. She was right. Again. Yui stood and dusted off her skirt. “You’re really good at talking without talking. You know that?” He shook his head slightly, but the corner of his mouth lifted. A flicker of something like a smile. Yui stretched her arms, then plopped into the teacher’s swivel chair. “I used to play the piano. Kind of. Until two years ago. I wasn’t as good as you, though.” Ren tilted his head, curious. She glanced out the window. “My mom used to say music is the only thing that stays with you when words fail. That’s probably why I liked it. But then—life happened. You know how it is.” She didn’t elaborate, and Ren didn’t press. He knew what it meant when someone didn’t want to go further. He had walls too. Instead, he walked to the shelf and picked out a blank sheet of music paper. He hesitated, then offered it to her. She raised an eyebrow. “You want me to write something?” He nodded. She took it. “I haven’t written in forever.” He handed her a pencil. Yui sat cross-legged on the floor again, placing the sheet on her lap like it was glass. Slowly, she drew five lines. A treble clef. A single note. Then another. Ren sat beside her, just close enough that their knees almost touched. They didn’t speak for the rest of the hour. She wrote. He watched. Outside, the wind tapped the window like a second metronome. And in that fragile, breathless space between heartbeats and music, something unspoken bloomed. The next few days fell into a rhythm neither of them questioned. Yui would meet him after school in the music room. She always brought something—milk bread, juice, sometimes even a bad joke—and Ren would play. Sometimes she’d hum along, or tap a beat on the floor, or write random lyrics that didn’t fit the song. He didn’t mind. She filled the room with a kind of presence that made his world feel less heavy. One day, she asked him, “What made you start playing again?” Ren hesitated. Then, slowly, he pointed to the violin. She nodded, then whispered, “It’s hers, isn’t it?” He looked away. Yui didn’t apologize. She just added, “I figured. You hold it like it’s made of memory.” That night, Ren added new lines to the song. For the first time, he titled it: The Violin’s Promise. A week later, the music teacher stopped Ren in the hall. “I heard you’ve been using the old room again,” she said with a fond smile. “And I heard a rumor—are you composing again?” Ren nodded. “Would you consider performing for the fall showcase?” His chest tightened. His hand gripped the strap of his violin case. “I know it’s hard,” the teacher added gently. “But I think your music deserves to be heard.” He didn’t answer. Later that day, in the music room, Ren told Yui about the offer by writing it in her notebook. She read the note, then looked up at him. “Will you do it?” He shook his head. “Why not?” He looked down. She waited, but when he didn’t reply, she said quietly, “I think you should. People need to hear you, Ren. Not just because you’re good—but because your music says things most of us don’t know how to say.” He looked at her. Really looked. And there was no teasing in her expression. Just truth. “But I’ll be selfish for a second,” she added, smiling. “If you perform, I’ll have something to brag about when I say, ‘That’s my friend up there.’” He blinked. Friend. The word settled in his chest like sunlight after rain. One evening, after she left, Ren stood alone in the music room. The violin rested in his hands, and the final line of his composition lay unfinished on the sheet. He closed his eyes. And began to play. This time, he imagined a stage. A crowd. And her—standing in the front row, wearing a sunflower pin, counting the beats on her fingers. And for once, the thought didn’t terrify him.