Chapter 13 When Silence sings back

Rain came softly that morning, barely more than a mist. The cherry blossoms outside Minato High School drooped with dew, their petals falling like sleepy confessions. In the music room, it was warm. Still. Except for the quiet rustling of paper and the light hum of electricity in the amp Yui always forgot to unplug.

Yui was already there when Ren arrived. She sat at the piano bench, not touching the keys, just staring at a crumpled page in her lyric journal. Her eyes looked puffy. Her ribbon was missing.

Ren stood in the doorway for a moment, unsure.

Then: "Morning."

She flinched, like she hadn’t expected his voice.

He stepped inside, water dripping faintly from the edge of his hoodie. He didn’t carry his violin today. Just a single piece of folded sheet music.

"You forgot your weapon," Yui said, voice trying for lightness, but cracking halfway.

He offered a small smile. "Not today. I came to listen."

A long pause.

Yui looked at the journal in her hands, then up at him.

"You were angry," she said quietly.

"I was... confused," Ren admitted. "When you left that night. I thought maybe I said something wrong. Or played something wrong."

She shook her head. "It wasn’t you. Not exactly."

Ren walked over slowly and sat on the floor beside her. Not too close. Just enough.

"I kept thinking," she whispered, "if I let you in too much, I’d lose whatever piece of myself I was holding together. And then I realized I already gave you that piece."

He looked at her, eyes wide.

She laughed, watery and weak. "Sorry. That was dramatic."

Ren shook his head. "No. It wasn’t."

Yui pulled a sheet from her journal. It was the final verse to "Hikari no Melody." One she hadn’t shown him. Until now.

> Even if your voice forgets its name, I'll remember the song it came from. If you vanish in silence, I’ll sing it back to you.

Ren read it. Then read it again.

"I was waiting for you to sing it," she said. "But maybe... I should've sung first."

Ren stood.

He walked to the shelf and took down the school’s battered acoustic guitar. He hadn't touched it before. But the strings were still good. The sound, raw and honest.

"I can’t play like you," he said, "but maybe... today I don’t need to."

Yui blinked. "You’re going to sing?"

He nodded. Just once.

And he began.

His voice was low, not polished, a little cracked in places. But it was his. Gentle. Real.

> Even if the notes fall out of tune, I’ll play them all for you. Even if I break in two, This melody will see me through.

Yui’s hands covered her mouth. Her eyes widened with something between joy and sorrow.

He looked at her as he sang the next lines:

> So if you run, run into the rain, Let me be the song that calls you home again.

The final chords rang and faded. Silence followed.

And then, Yui joined him.

No piano. No amp. Just her voice. Soft, sure.

> I'll be the light in your quiet sky, The echo when you forget to try.

Ren laughed—not loudly, but in disbelief. Not because she was singing. But because it felt like everything that had been cracked between them had suddenly healed. Not completely. But enough.

They sang the chorus together:

> So if silence ever sings your name, Know it's me, calling you the same. From shadow, from sound, from all that we've been, Let this song be where we begin.

When the last note died, neither of them moved.

Yui stepped closer. This time, she took his hand.

"Let’s not run anymore," she said.

Ren nodded.

And for the first time, he didn’t just hear the music.

He felt it echoing back.