Chapter 14 Echoes of the winter farewell

The winter air had arrived early in Minato, clinging to the windows of the school like breath on glass. The music room had never felt colder. Not because of the season, but because of the looming silence neither of them wanted to acknowledge.
Yui’s departure date was set.
January 12.
Exactly five weeks from now.
Ren Amamiya sat on the floor with his back against the piano, his violin case unopened beside him. Yui knelt nearby, writing something into her lyric notebook. Her pen moved in slow, careful strokes, like she was afraid of each word.
She hadn’t told anyone else yet. Not even the teachers.
Only Ren.
"Are you sure you want to go?" he asked softly, his voice almost swallowed by the ticking metronome on the wall.
Yui looked up.
"It’s not about want," she said. "It’s about need. If I don’t take this chance... I might regret it forever."
He nodded slowly, but didn’t speak. The truth was, he understood. Vienna. A conservatory with a scholarship. It was everything Yui had once dreamed of. Everything she had buried after her mother died. But now, with her compositions gaining attention and their uploaded song reaching over fifty thousand streams, the world had started noticing.
The same world that might take her away from him.
Yui shifted beside him and placed her journal on the ground.
"It’s for only a year," she said. "That’s not forever, right?"
Ren lowered his head.
He remembered the days she first came into his life—the sunflower pin, the blue ribbon, the first time she listened instead of speaking. It hadn’t been that long ago, but she had become the melody his life was built around.
"Right," he echoed.

---
The next few weeks passed like snow drifting across pavement—quiet and impossible to hold on to.
They still met every day in the music room. Still composed. Still smiled. But something had changed. There was a fragility now, like the notes of their melody might crack if played too loudly.
One afternoon, Ren surprised Yui with a small recording device. "To keep your voice with me," he said simply.
Yui blinked. Then smiled. "Then I want one too. So I don’t forget how you sound when you play."
They recorded bits and pieces—not full songs, but fragments. Laughs. Hums. The sound of pencils tapping and violin strings warming up. Moments. Not music.
Memories.

---
The night before winter break began, snow began to fall.
Ren walked Yui to her bus stop, both bundled in scarves and coats. Her hair was tucked into a knit hat, and she clutched her lyric book like it was made of glass.
"Promise me you’ll write?" she asked.
"Every week," he replied.
"And send songs? Even unfinished ones?"
"Especially those."
The bus headlights pierced the dark street as it pulled up with a hiss of brakes. Yui didn’t move at first.
Then, with one last look, she reached out and gently took Ren’s hand.
"Don’t forget me."
His grip tightened. "I couldn’t. Even if I tried."
The bus doors opened. She stepped back.
"Merry Christmas, Ren."
He watched her climb aboard. Watched the doors close. Watched the bus pull away, a trail of snowflakes dancing in its wake.
The melody in his chest had no lyrics now. Only silence.
And a farewell.