Chapter 26 Echoes Across the ocean

Ren stood before the wide window of his Tokyo dorm, the city lights sprawled beneath him like scattered fireflies. The air was thick with late spring rain, and the distant rumble of thunder pressed gently against the glass. His violin lay open in its case, polished and waiting.

Tonight was special.

It had been three weeks since Yui's postcard. Since her apology. Since her promise to find herself in the foreign starlight of Vienna. They hadn't spoken much since then—brief texts, a voice message here and there. But every word still sounded like music.

Ren had written a new piece.

Not a song of sadness. Not even a song of waiting.

But a piece for two hearts trying to meet halfway across the sea.

He titled it: "Echoes Across the Ocean."

Earlier that day, he had received a short message from Yui:

"Ren... are you free tonight? Midnight, your time. I want to hear it."

He had stared at that message for minutes. Then, slowly, smiled.

He messaged back:

"Always."

Midnight came like a whisper.

Ren adjusted his mic, tuned his violin, and connected to the private video call.

The screen lit up.

There she was.

Yui, bundled in a thick scarf, sitting near a tall window in a Vienna dorm, her face lit by the soft blue glow of a desk lamp. Her hair was longer. Her cheeks thinner. But her eyes—

They still looked at him the same way.

She waved, unsure.

He waved back.

"So," she said quietly, her voice fragile. "Play me the ocean."

He nodded. Drew the bow across the strings.

And began.

The piece started slow, like waves brushing against distant shores. His notes carried a tenderness, a patience that filled the space between them. Yui closed her eyes, breathing in every vibration.

Then the melody swelled.

It was a story. Of two people, once quiet, once broken, finding sound again through each other. A story of harmonies formed under sakura trees, of hands brushing near piano keys, of tears shed beneath rooftops and stars.

Near the end, he slowed.

And paused.

Yui opened her eyes.

"Ren... is that where I come in?"

He nodded.

"I didn’t bring my guitar," she said with a small, sad laugh.

"You don’t need it. Just sing."

She hesitated. Then leaned close to the screen.

Her voice rose into the night.

"Even if the sky forgets our names, Even if the echoes fade too soon— This melody remembers you. And I will, too."

Ren played the final notes, his fingers trembling.

Silence.

Then both of them laughed. Not from joy. Not from pain.

But from knowing they were still there.

They stayed on the call long after the song ended. Talking about everything and nothing.

About her first snowfall in Vienna. About his new students in the music club. About a dream she had where they played for an audience of stars.

At one point, Yui pulled a notebook into frame.

"I’ve started writing again. Not lyrics. Just... letters. To you."

Ren smiled. "Do I get to read them?"

"Maybe. One day. When I see you again."

He leaned back. Looked at her. Really looked.

"Yui... are we still—?"

She interrupted softly. "Yes. Whatever we are. However far. We still are."

He nodded.

And it was enough.

Later, as the sky began to pale with morning, Yui dozed off on the call. Her breathing steady. Her notebook clutched to her chest.

Ren didn’t end the call. He just watched her sleep.

Then, picking up his violin, he played softly.

A lullaby.

One only she would ever hear.