CHAPTER 9 A Song Without shadows

The classroom lights dimmed as the afternoon sun spilled honeyed rays across the polished floors. Music sheets scattered across the desk fluttered in a breeze that didn’t exist. Somewhere deep in the room, laughter echoed softly—a rare, delicate sound.

Ren Amamiya sat cross-legged on the old piano bench, violin balanced gently on one knee. Yui Tachibana was beside him, head bent low over her lyric journal, her bangs casting little shadows over her eyes. She was humming.

"How does it feel?" Ren asked.

Yui looked up, surprised. "Hmm?"

"The melody. Does it feel too fast?"

She paused. Then she tapped the journal with her pen. "It wants to run. Maybe it should."

Ren smiled. "Alright. Let's chase it."

Two weeks had passed since the rooftop performance that changed everything.

After the concert, the school corridors became less gray. Strangers smiled at Yui in the halls. Teachers no longer looked at Ren with worried eyes. Their classmates whispered not with mockery, but admiration.

And yet, for Ren and Yui, none of it mattered more than the music they were now writing. Not because it would be performed, or because people would listen. But because it was theirs.

"This one is different," Yui said, one afternoon as they walked through the sakura-lined path behind the school.

"How so?"

She tapped her chest. "It starts here. Not here," she pointed to her notebook.

Ren understood.

Their new song was called "Hikari no Melody" — Melody of Light. A blend of English and Japanese, just like them. A song made from pain that had been accepted, not buried.

It was Yui’s idea to write the lyrics in both languages.

"Not everyone will understand every word," she said. "But they’ll feel it."

They spent afternoons sprawled in the music room, sunlight pouring in like syrup, trading verses, chords, and quiet glances.

Yui wrote:

Even if the night is long, and no one sees your cry,
I’ll sing the notes you left behind, floating in the sky.

Ren added:

夜が終わ308aを告げるま3067、
君の声をここに続けよう。
(Until the night gives birth to morning, I will keep your voice alive here.)

And Yui, quietly, scribbled:

Let this be the song without shadows.

One day, Rin Fujimoto, a classmate who had always kept his distance, approached them during lunch.

"I heard the new demo," he said. "It made me... feel weird. Good weird."

Ren blinked. "You heard it? How?"

Rin shrugged. "Library. I was next door. The music floated in. I think it made me forgive myself. A little."

Yui looked stunned. Then she smiled.

"Are you going to release it somewhere?" Rin asked.

Ren and Yui exchanged glances. "We hadn’t planned to," Ren said.

Rin nodded, then walked off. But his words lingered.

That night, Ren stood in his room, the violin against his collarbone, eyes closed.

He played the first bars of Hikari no Melody. The notes poured like water, soft and golden. He imagined Yui's voice joining his, threading through the melody like starlight through branches.

He wanted people to hear it. Not for fame. But because maybe, just maybe, their song could carry someone else the way it had carried them.

He picked up his phone and sent a message.

"What if we let it go into the world?"

Yui replied within minutes.

"If it can help even one person smile again... then yes."

They spent the next week recording a simple demo.

No studio. No mixer. Just a classroom mic, Ren’s violin, Yui’s voice, and open windows.

Yui sang in both languages, sometimes switching mid-verse, her voice trembling and sure at once. Ren harmonized with soft notes and deep emotion.

They uploaded it anonymously to a small indie sharing site.

They didn’t tell anyone.

Three days later, it had 2,300 plays.

A week later, 10,000.

Comments appeared from around the world.

"I don’t know why, but this made me cry and smile at once."
"これを聞いてひとりじゃないと感じました。"
(I listened to this and didn’t feel alone.)
*"Whoever you are... thank you."

Yui stared at the screen, eyes wide.

Ren leaned over her shoulder, just as stunned.

Then she whispered, "We really did it, didn’t we?"

Ren smiled.

"Yeah. We did."

One rainy afternoon, their teacher Mr. Sakamoto pulled them aside.

"The principal wants you two to perform at the city youth showcase. It’s next month. You’re our entry."

Yui froze.

Ren looked at her. "Do you want to?"

She hesitated.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

The day of the showcase arrived under an April sky.

Yui wore a simple white dress, her lyric book clutched tightly to her chest. Ren wore a dark button-down and his ever-worn violin strap.

They stood backstage, hands almost touching.

"Are you scared?" he asked.

She looked up.

"No. Not anymore."

He smiled. "Good. Because I am."

She took his hand.

"Then let’s be brave together."

When the curtains rose, there was a hush.

Ren stepped forward, tuning a string. Yui sat beside the piano.

And they began.

"Even if the night is long..."

Yui’s voice lifted. Ren joined her, harmonizing in Japanese. The audience leaned forward, some visibly moved.

"I’ll sing the notes you left behind..."
君の声をここに続けよう...

By the time they reached the final chorus, you could hear sniffling. Even the judges watched, still and silent.

They ended on a long, suspended note that shimmered like dusk.

Silence.

Then thunderous applause.

They didn’t win the competition.

But that night, as they walked home under the stars, Yui turned to Ren.

"This... is what I want to do. For real."

Ren nodded.

"Me too."

Their fingers brushed. Then intertwined.

Not as a grand gesture. Not for drama.

Just a quiet, perfect moment.

And the start of something even more beautiful than music.