Chapter 16 The sound of tomorrow

Chapter 16: The Sound of Tomorr

The cherry blossoms came early that year.

Soft petals floated through the town like memories, like letters written by the wind. And in every step Ren Amamiya took along the riverside path, he felt the weight of their silence—and her presence within it.

It had been two months since Yui had left for Tokyo.

She called sometimes. Late at night. Her voice crackly but soft, laughing at nothing, sighing between thoughts. She texted lyrics, half-formed lines, strange little ideas for new songs. And always—always—she ended her messages with:

Keep playing. Even if I'm not there.

But in the quiet, when the music room echoed too much, Ren still reached for the ghost of her voice.

At school, life pressed on like it always did.

Final exams loomed. Clubs thinned out. Graduation photos were taken with awkward grins and fingers forming peace signs.

Ren barely smiled in his.

Sakamoto-sensei caught him after class one day. “Still writing?”

Ren nodded.

“Still missing her?”

He nodded again.

The teacher hesitated. “Sometimes absence sharpens the melody. Let it.”

Ren didn’t respond. But he understood.

One afternoon, Ren stood before the mirror in his room, tying his black ribbon again and again. It was the same ribbon Yui had once worn in her hair, the one she gave him on her last day in Minato.

He wore it as a wristband now.

Not for style. For memory.

He sat down and placed the violin on his shoulder, heart trembling. A new song had begun forming—one he hadn’t shown anyone.

He called it: The Sound of Tomorrow.

The song didn’t sound like sadness.

It didn’t cry like Hikari no Melody, and it didn’t ache like The Violin’s Promise.

It moved like hope.

Soft. Honest. Still a little broken—but healing.

He played it every day, just once, at sunset. In the music room. On the rooftop. Sometimes by the river. People passed by and paused, drawn in by the honesty of the melody. Nobody clapped. Nobody asked questions.

They just listened.

One evening, Yui called while he was playing.

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

He let the final note ring out into the quiet, then picked up.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“You played it again, didn’t you?” she said through the line.

He blinked. “How did you—”

“I just knew.”

There was silence.

Then she whispered, “I miss you.”

Ren swallowed hard. “I miss you too.”

“Did the song end today?”

He looked at the music sheet. The final bar was still blank.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

Yui didn’t speak for a long moment. Then she said, “I think it’s time you sang again.”

He hadn’t sung since she left.

Not a single note. Not even a hum.

Singing had always felt too exposed, too raw. The violin could speak for him. The lyrics could be hers. But his voice? That was something he’d only ever shared with her.

But now—

He looked at the rooftop.

He could try.

That weekend, Minato held its annual Spring Lights Festival.

Ren had never performed there before. But this year, the student council asked him directly.

He almost refused.

But Yui’s voice came back to him.

Sing again.

So he said yes.

The festival was modest. Lanterns floated over the lake. Stalls sold yakitori and bubble tea. Children wore fox masks. And on a small wooden stage by the hill, Ren stood with his violin and a single mic.

He tuned the strings slowly.

Then looked up at the crowd. Not a massive one. Dozens of people at most. Some students. Some strangers. A few familiar teachers.

And then—

At the edge of the clearing, just by the cotton candy stall—

He saw her.

Yui.

Wearing a dark blue hoodie and that same ribbon in her hair.

His heart stopped.

She waved, not smiling yet. Waiting.

Ren looked down. The weight of the world sat in his chest.

And he sang.

Even if tomorrow comes too fast,
Even if you’re far, and we can’t go back,
I’ll keep this light inside my hand,
And send it to your sky.

Even if our songs forget their names,
Even if the world won’t sound the same,
You’re in the silence I still keep,
In every note I play.

His voice cracked near the end. Not from fear. From truth.

And the crowd clapped gently.

But she didn’t clap.

She walked forward, slowly, until she stood at the front of the stage.

Then she smiled.

“Sing it again,” she whispered.

He stepped off the stage. Walked up to her. Didn’t ask why she came back. Didn’t ask how long she’d stay.

He just said:

“Sing it with me this time?”

And Yui nodded.

Later that night, under lanterns and starlight, they sat by the riverbank with a single shared pair of earbuds.

A demo played on his phone. Just instrumentals for now.

They hummed softly together.

Yui rested her head on his shoulder.

“Promise me,” she said.

“What?”

“When I leave again—when I’m far—don’t stop writing.”

Ren reached over and took her hand.

“I won’t. But only if you promise to come back again.”

Yui closed her eyes. “Always.”

And there, surrounded by fading blossoms and fireflies, they finished the final verse of The Sound of Tomorrow.

Together.