Chapter 25 When Word's Return

The snowfall was late that year in Vienna.
Yui Tachibana sat by the tall window of the conservatory dormitory, the sky outside overcast, as if the clouds were waiting for something too. Her phone was by her side, Ren’s messages unread—not because she wanted to avoid him, but because she didn’t yet know how to respond.
She had sent that postcard weeks ago.
And he had answered.
Not with words.
But with music.
His piece, The Night Without a Reply, had reached over 40,000 listens. Her classmates whispered about it. A teacher played it during a theory class, unaware Yui had been the invisible thread woven into its notes.
She had cried listening to it.
But she hadn’t replied.

---
Ren Amamiya was not waiting anymore.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
He played. He studied. He rehearsed. And every now and then, he would compose something short and never finish it. Yui’s silence had left a shadow inside him that he refused to name.
He still checked his phone each morning.
He still played their songs each night.
But he was not waiting.
Or so he repeated.

---
It was February when the first letter came.
Handwritten.
Long.
Not a postcard. Not a poem. But a letter.
Yui had written it on New Year’s Day but only sent it in mid-February.
> "I didn’t want to vanish, Ren. I just… didn’t know how to bring the broken pieces back to you."


> "Music here is fast and fierce. Everyone’s chasing something. I lost the shape of myself. I forgot why I came. Why we wrote ‘Hikari no Melody.’ Why we ever believed in softness."


> "But then your song found me. You found me. Without asking anything. Without blaming me."


> "I’m not ready to come home. But I want to make music with you again. Even if it’s one note at a time. Even if it’s across continents."


> "Can we do that?"



---
Ren’s answer wasn’t a letter.
It was a voice memo.
He sent it the next day.
> “I’m still playing. Still listening. Still writing for you.”


> “Let’s build it together. One note at a time.”


> “I missed you. Welcome back.”



---
And so, across oceans, their music resumed.
Not loudly.
Not publicly.
But quietly.
They sent verses and fragments.
Lyrics scribbled in notebooks.
Melodies hummed into phones.
Sometimes they video called, though the time difference meant someone was always tired.
But neither of them minded.

---
By April, they had finished a new song.
It was called Where Snow Waits to Melt.
A soft ballad. Gentle. Honest.
They uploaded it together.
It didn’t go viral.
But it didn’t need to.
It found the ears it was meant to find.
And one comment stood out:
> “This sounds like two people forgiving the world together.”


Yui smiled when she read that.
So did Ren.

---
In late spring, their schools announced a special joint performance for exchange students and alumni.
Yui’s teacher pulled her aside.
"You’ve been invited to return to Japan for a week. To perform with a partner of your choosing."
Yui’s heart leapt.
Her fingers trembled.
That night, she sent Ren a message:
> “What would you say to one last duet?”


His reply came instantly.
> “I never stopped saying yes.”