Chapter 20 Where the horizon waits

The air turned crisp as autumn crept in, painting the trees in hues of amber and gold. Leaves danced across the school courtyard in gentle spirals, and the sky above Minato High carried a softness that only came with the closing chapters of the year.

Ren Amamiya stood on the rooftop again, his violin case by his side, his gaze sweeping across the city skyline. He used to come up here to be alone. Now, it was different.

He came because this was where they began.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Yui said, stepping into the wind, her scarf fluttering. She held a thermos in her hands, cheeks slightly flushed from the cold. “You always get that distant look when it’s cloudy.”

Ren offered a small smile. “Clouds make the world quieter.”

She walked to his side and handed him the thermos. “Hot chocolate. Emergency remedy for seasonal gloom.”

He took it gratefully. “Thanks.”

They stood in silence for a moment, sipping warmth and watching the golden horizon. The stillness between them wasn’t awkward. It was full, meaningful. It had taken them months to reach this kind of silence—the kind that said everything.

Then she said it.

“I got the papers.”

Ren didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t have to ask which ones.

“For Vienna?”

She nodded slowly. “Spring semester. March intake.”

A pause stretched between them like the space between two notes, held long enough to tremble.

“It’s real now,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

Later that day, back in the music room, Yui watched Ren as he tuned his violin. There was something more fragile in the way he handled it—like he feared the strings might snap under too much pressure.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a crumpled sheet.

“Lyrics,” she said, laying it on the piano. “For our next song.”

Ren looked over it silently. It was titled: “Horizon.”

He read the first lines:

"Even if we walk in different seasons,
Our shadows will still touch when the light is low."

His fingers paused on the strings.

“These are beautiful,” he said softly.

She smiled. “It’s not a goodbye song. Just a... 'see you again' one.”

He nodded, though his chest ached.

They began composing it together, just like before. Ren played a lilting melody, full of open space—notes that drifted like leaves. Yui hummed along, her voice threading warmth into the quiet places of the tune.

But something was different.

Every moment felt like it might be the last.

By the time October gave way to November, Ren found himself growing more silent—not out of fear, but uncertainty. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even sad in the way he expected.

He was afraid of losing his reason to play.

One afternoon, as they rehearsed, Yui caught his hand mid-bow.

“Ren.”

He looked at her.

“You know,” she said quietly, “when I leave... I’m not taking your music with me.”

He blinked.

“It stays here. With you. In your hands. In the air. In the memories. I’m just borrowing the sky for a while.”

He looked away, the corners of his eyes shining. “It’s hard.”

“I know.”

She placed a hand over his heart. “But it doesn’t mean it’s over. Just... paused.”

He couldn’t find the words, so he leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently to hers.

It was enough.

That night, Ren sat on his balcony, violin in hand, composing a melody without paper. He didn’t write it down. It wasn’t meant to be captured.

It was a song for Yui’s memory before she even left.

A melody to say: I’ll still be here when you come back.

December brought snow early. On the final day of term, Minato High held a small winter recital.

Ren and Yui had signed up without telling anyone what they’d perform. As the gymnasium filled with murmurs and music, the two of them stepped onto the small stage, hand in hand.

Ren carried his violin. Yui brought nothing but her voice.

They performed “Horizon.”

It began quietly—Ren’s bow dancing over strings with feather-light grace. Then Yui’s voice entered, soft and sure.

She sang in English:

“We don’t need to promise forever,
Just meet me where the horizon bends...”

Then in Japanese:

永遠(とわ)じゃなくていいの
ただ　また会える場所で
(It doesn’t have to be forever,
Just somewhere we’ll meet again)

The gym was silent.

Even the teachers forgot to breathe.

The last notes lingered like snowfall.

Applause followed, but Ren only heard Yui beside him, eyes bright, hands trembling.

They bowed together.

After the show, they sat on the rooftop again. It was snowing lightly now, the sky soft with stars.

“I’ll miss this,” she whispered.

Ren turned to her.

“I’ll miss you.”

She smiled sadly. “I know.”

Then, softly, she said, “I have something for you.”

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded paper.

Ren opened it.

It was a lyric sheet.

His name was written at the bottom, next to hers.

Co-written.

She smiled. “It’s the next song. For when I’m gone.”

He swallowed hard. “I’ll write the music.”

She nodded.

“Play it loud, Ren. So I can hear it from Vienna.”

As the snow gathered quietly on the rooftop, Ren and Yui sat side by side, hearts aching but whole, hands linked, futures unwritten.

They didn’t say goodbye.

Because their music hadn’t ended.

It was simply heading toward the horizon.