Chapter 19 Echoes in a foreign sky

Paris smelled like roasted chestnuts, old books, and rain. Yui Tachibana pressed her cheek against the cold window of the taxi as it crossed the Seine, watching the golden lights flicker across the water like trembling memories.

"Are you cold?" Ren Amamiya asked gently, reaching across to adjust her scarf.

Yui shook her head. "Just... overwhelmed. It feels like we're inside a painting."

They had arrived in Paris that morning, jet-lagged but exhilarated. The invitation from the French university had been unexpected, but everything since then had felt like an unfolding dream. They were to perform and teach a short workshop on emotional music composition—sharing their journey with students from across Europe.

The taxi pulled up outside a modest hotel tucked between bookstores and bakeries. The manager greeted them in a thick accent and handed over the room keys with a knowing smile. Ren and Yui took the elevator in silence, listening to the soft creaks of old machinery and the muffled thrum of rain.

Later that evening, they explored Montmartre, stopping to admire street musicians and chalk artists. Yui bought a small notebook from a sidewalk stall—cream-colored pages bound in red thread.

"A new lyric journal?" Ren asked.

She nodded. "Feels right. Like a new chapter."

They wandered toward the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, its white dome gleaming against the cloudy sky. Yui stood on the steps and stretched her arms wide, breathing in the city air.

"Sing something," Ren said.

"Here?"

"Here."

Yui smiled shyly, then sang the first few lines of their song—soft, hesitant, but clear. People turned to listen. A child clapped. An old man whispered to his wife.

Ren joined with his violin, and together they played as night fell.

The university workshop the next day was held in a sunlit room with vaulted ceilings. Students gathered with notebooks and curious eyes. Some had heard the song. Some hadn't. All were listening.

Ren spoke about silence. Yui spoke about fear. Together, they talked about music as memory, as healing, as truth.

They performed "The Composition We Never Finished," and when the final note faded, there was no applause—just stillness, and tears.

A girl with auburn hair raised her hand. "How did you know you were ready to share again? After everything?"

Yui looked at Ren, then answered, "We weren't. But we knew it mattered more than being ready."

That night, after a quiet dinner, Yui returned to her hotel room to find a letter slipped under the door.

No return address. Only her name in familiar handwriting.

She unfolded it slowly.

Yui,

I heard your song in a Paris café. I knew it had to be you. I'm sorry for everything. I don't expect forgiveness. But if you're willing, I'd like to talk. One coffee. One conversation.

Tomorrow. Noon. Jardin du Luxembourg.

— S

Yui stared at the letter, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

S.

There was only one person it could be.

The next morning, Ren noticed she was quiet over breakfast.

"Everything okay?"

Yui hesitated. "I got a letter. From someone I used to know. Someone I didn't think I'd ever see again."

Ren's brow furrowed. "Do you want to go?"

"I think I have to."

He nodded. "Then go. I'll wait."

The Jardin du Luxembourg was bathed in soft sunlight. Children pushed toy sailboats across the fountains. Musicians played in the distance.

Yui waited on a bench near the roses, her hands trembling.

A tall figure approached.

Her breath caught.

"Souta," she whispered.

He looked older. His hair shorter, his eyes wearier.

"Hi, Yui."

She stood but didn’t embrace him. Just looked.

"You... heard the song?"

He nodded. "It broke me. And healed me. All at once."

They sat in silence.

Then Souta began to speak—about the accident, the guilt, the years he ran from everything.

Yui listened.

She didn’t forgive him. Not fully. Not yet. But when he reached into his coat and pulled out the broken remains of an old, burned lyric journal, her heart cracked open.

"I kept it," he said. "Even when I didn’t deserve to."

Yui took it gently, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"Maybe," she said, "we never really stop carrying each other."

When she returned to the hotel, Ren was waiting in the lobby with warm tea.

She collapsed into his arms.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For trusting me."

He kissed her forehead.

"Always."

That night, they sat side by side by the window, looking out at the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

Yui opened her new journal.

And together, they began writing their next song.

One about memory.
One about forgiveness.
One about the way music carries echoes, even in a foreign sky.