Chapter 23 The Night Without Reply

Ren Amamiya had never liked silence.

Not the kind that fills music halls before a concert.

Not the kind that lingers on train rides after a goodbye.

And not the kind that buzzed inside his chest now.

Yui hadn't replied in two days.

It wasn’t unusual. Time zones, rehearsals, sudden Conservatory performances — all valid reasons. But something inside him twitched. A feeling. Not fear.

A kind of ache.

He reread their last conversation.

Her message:

“Even if I’m half a world apart, I’ll fold my voice into the dark. If you play it back at dawn, I’ll know we’re not gone.”

He’d played her voice back.

At dawn. At dusk. On loop.

But the next harmony didn’t come.

Ren sat at his desk, headphones on, violin cradled in his lap. Around him were scattered lyric sheets, some crumpled, some stained with tea.

He had tried to compose.

Tried to write.

But every chord sounded wrong. Every note was a question without an answer.

He stared at the mic.

Then turned it off.

He stepped outside.

The Tokyo air was brisk. Winter hadn't left yet, though the calendar claimed spring was near.

Passing students greeted him. He nodded. Smiled. Went through the motions.

But something inside remained off-key.

Back in his room, he checked her messages again.

Nothing.

So he called.

Once.

Twice.

Voicemail.

He didn’t leave a message.

Just silence.

That night, Ren sat at the piano in the school’s empty music room.

He played the chorus of their last duet.

Paused.

Waited.

As if Yui might step in from the shadows and finish it.

She didn’t.

So he played alone.

Three days.

Still no word.

He opened her last file again.

Her voice, soft and trembling.

He knew every inflection now. Every moment where her breath caught. Where her heart spoke.

He leaned his forehead against the keys.

This time, the silence hurt.

Maybe she was overwhelmed. Maybe something had gone wrong. Maybe—

No. Don’t spiral.

He typed a message:

“Still listening. Still here.”

And sent it.

The next morning, still nothing.

That evening, he received a letter.

A real one.

A white envelope slipped under his dorm door. No return address. Just his name in soft handwriting.

Inside, a postcard. A painting of the Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna.

And on the back—

“The stars here look different. But they still remind me of your song.
I’m sorry I went quiet. I needed time.
Not from you—from myself.
Please wait for me a little longer.
—Yui”

Ren closed his eyes.

Exhaled.

Then cried.

Quietly.

Later that night, he went live on the indie sharing site.

No fancy setup. No effects.

Just Ren and his violin.

He didn’t say anything.

He just played.

A piece called:

“The Night Without a Reply.”

The comments flooded in.

“It hurts in the most beautiful way.”
“Are you okay?”
“This feels like longing, like love… and waiting.”

He didn’t reply to any of them.

He didn’t need to.

Somewhere in Vienna, Yui lay awake.

Headphones in.

Tears rolling down her cheek.

Listening.

And across the sea, Ren whispered to the night.

“I’ll wait.”