Chapter 29 The Concert we never finished

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Spring in Vienna had a strange rhythm. The mornings were brisk, like early rehearsals; the afternoons glowed golden like violins warming in the sun.

Yui Tachibana stood at the edge of the Conservatory’s courtyard, violin case slung across her shoulder. Her hands trembled—not from nerves, but anticipation.

Today, her name was on the main stage’s recital program.

And tonight, Ren Amamiya would be in the audience.

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She hadn't seen him in person in over a year.

There had been late-night calls, song files, even voice messages where one would hum half a tune and wait hours for the reply.

But not this.

Not breath. Not eye contact. Not the weight of reality pressing softly into the space between two people.

Her Conservatory roommate, Lina, nudged her with a grin. “Your Japanese prince is landing soon?”

Yui flushed. “He’s… not—well, yes. He’s arriving this afternoon.”

“And you’re playing the original song, right? The one from your high school rooftop?”

Yui nodded. “But I changed the last verse.”

Lina tilted her head. “Why?”

Yui smiled. “Because I’ve changed too.”

---

Ren stared out of the airplane window, Tokyo shrinking beneath him like a memory drawn in pencil.

In his coat pocket was a new composition. No title yet. Just the first line:

"If you’re still listening, I’ll play until the silence becomes song."

He’d kept it secret. Not even Yui knew.

This was for her.

For the girl who once counted silence and turned it into melody.

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The Conservatory buzzed with activity that evening. Dozens of performances, students and faculty gathered in soft excitement.

Backstage, Yui paced.

Her violin was tuned, her dress a flowing navy blue—simple, elegant. But her heart was louder than any orchestra.

She peeked through the curtain.

And saw him.

Ren. Standing near the second row. His dark hair slightly longer. A violin case of his own at his side.

She almost dropped her bow.

---

The announcer’s voice rang through the hall.

> “Next is an original duet by Yui Tachibana… and a guest.”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

Yui stepped out into the lights. Alone at first.

Then Ren walked onto the stage beside her.

Gasps. Whispers.

Even Lina sat in stunned silence.

Yui met Ren’s eyes.

“You memorized it?” she whispered.

He smirked softly. “Every breath.”

---

They didn’t bow. Didn’t announce anything.

They just began.

“Hikari no Melody” — the song that had saved them once. But this time, it was different.

This time, they lived it.

---

Yui’s voice opened the piece. Soft, like spring rain. Then strong, like wind through cherry blossoms.

Ren’s violin joined like a second heartbeat.

The verses flowed in English and Japanese, crisscrossing languages like threads of memory and hope.

Yui sang:

> “I waited through the hush of snow, And heard your heart in notes below.”

Ren’s bow responded with a glissando—melancholy turned into motion.

---

Then came the new verse. The one Ren had never heard.

Yui took a breath.

> “Even if silence stretched too wide, Even if I thought you’d slipped outside— I never stopped singing you through the dark.”

Ren almost missed his cue.

Her words were for him. About the nights she didn’t reply. About the ache they both shared.

He recovered—barely—and added the harmony:

> “Let’s not be an echo of what could have been. Let’s be the melody that always begins.”

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When they finished, there was no applause at first.

Only silence.

Then someone stood.

Then another.

Applause thundered through the hall. Some cried. Some simply closed their eyes and smiled.

Yui turned toward Ren.

“Still scared of silence?” she whispered.

He reached for her hand.

“Not when you’re in it.”

---

Afterward, in the empty hallway outside the concert hall, they stood together.

The city glimmered beyond the window.

Ren reached into his coat pocket and handed her a folded page.

She opened it. A song. Untitled. Incomplete.

“I want to write the rest with you,” he said.

Yui laughed, teary-eyed.

“Then I guess… we better not stop now.”

They didn’t kiss.

They didn’t need to.

They simply walked forward—together—toward a future filled with music neither had to

sing alone.