CHAPTER 6 When the rain began to sing

Chapter 6: When the Rain Began to Sing

The rain had returned.

Not the quiet, wistful drizzle that tiptoed across windows like a hesitant memory, but the kind that made the sky feel heavy—thick with unspoken things. The kind that Ren used to hate.

But not today.

Because today, he waited in the music room, listening to its rhythm against the rooftop, waiting for the door to open—and for her to step through it.

Yui was late.

He checked the clock again.

Fifteen minutes.

Then twenty.

He tried to focus on the sheet music in front of him, tried to add a line to “The Violin’s Promise,” but the notes blurred.

Was she okay?

Was she avoiding him?

Had something happened?

Just as the clock reached the half-hour mark, the door creaked open.

Ren looked up—and there she was, soaked, breathless, and smiling like someone who’d run through a storm just to find a piece of sunlight.

“You wouldn’t believe the traffic,” she laughed, brushing wet strands of hair from her face. “And my umbrella broke. Total betrayal.”

Ren stared for a second. Then, without thinking, he handed her his towel—the one he kept in his violin case for wiping down strings.

“Thanks,” she said softly, accepting it. “You always know.”

She sat beside him, still dripping slightly, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

They didn’t speak right away. The storm did the talking for them.

Finally, Yui broke the silence. “I had a weird dream last night.”

Ren tilted his head, curious.

“You were on a stage,” she said, “playing The Violin’s Promise. But it wasn’t just a concert—it was like… the music was opening doors. To places. To people. To things we’d forgotten.”

He blinked.

“And when you finished,” she added, her voice gentling, “everyone stood. Not just because of how beautiful it was—but because they understood. Even the silent parts.”

Ren didn’t know what to say. But his fingers found the strings. And he began to play.

The melody came out softer than usual, shaped by the rain. It didn’t rise or crescendo. It lingered. Like a hand reaching out in the dark.

Yui leaned back, closed her eyes, and just listened.

“You know,” she said quietly, “when I stopped playing piano, I thought that part of me had ended. Like it was something I left behind at a station I’d never return to.”

He kept playing.

“But then I met you. And your music—it’s like it remembered something I forgot. It made me want to start again. Even if just to stand beside your sound.”

Ren’s bow faltered slightly. He paused.

She turned to him. “Can I ask something?”

He nodded.

“Will you let me play with you? For the fall showcase?”

The words hit like a gentle chord.

He stared at her—surprised, uncertain.

“I mean, I’m rusty,” she admitted with a laugh. “But I could practice. You wouldn’t have to carry all the weight alone.”

A pause.

Then slowly—hesitantly—Ren nodded.

They began practicing the next day.

Yui borrowed an old keyboard from the music room storage. It was slightly out of tune, with a few keys that stuck, but she didn’t complain. She relearned the song note by note, her fingers stumbling at first, but steadying over time.

Ren adjusted his playing to fit her rhythm.

And something shifted.

Their duet wasn’t perfect. But it was full of life—like two voices learning how to speak again.

They didn’t just play the song.

They lived it.

On the afternoon before the showcase, they stayed late.

Yui wiped sweat from her brow. “Okay, I think my fingers are falling off.”

Ren smirked.

She grinned. “Was that almost a smile? I’m honored.”

They sat together on the floor again, like they did on the very first day.

“I’m nervous,” she whispered.

He glanced at her.

“Not about messing up. About being seen. You know?”

He did know.

But he also knew they wouldn’t be alone out there.

Ren reached over and took her hand.

She froze.

His hand was warm, steady.

He gave it a tiny squeeze.

And for the first time in a long while, she closed her eyes—and didn’t feel afraid.