Chapter 30 Crescendo of us

Vienna was still awake at midnight.
Cobblestone streets glistened from a recent drizzle, lamplight pooling like liquid gold. Inside a quiet café near the riverbank, the soft clatter of coffee cups filled the silence. A single booth was occupied—by two people who didn’t need noise to communicate.
Ren stirred his tea.
Yui watched the rain blur the world beyond the window.
Neither had said a word since sitting down.
But both were smiling.

---
“You remember,” Yui finally said, “how we promised to write something only we could understand?”
Ren nodded. “The one no one else could play.”
“I think… we just performed it.”
Ren blinked, then leaned back. “And they still heard it.”
Yui tilted her head toward him. “That’s what love does, right? It translates even what’s unspoken.”

---
Their hands met across the table.
Yui's touch was different now—steadier, warmer. Not the girl who once measured friendship in returned pens. Not the shadow in the choir who never spoke.
And Ren—he was no longer hiding behind solos. His melodies had names now. One name.
Yui.

---
After the showcase, the Conservatory offered Yui a second-year extension. A chance to study with a world-renowned composer. A dream wrapped in pressure and praise.
She hadn't said yes.
Not yet.
And now, with Ren beside her, the decision felt heavier.
“Two more years is a long time,” she whispered.
Ren didn't look away. “Only if you think in minutes.”
Silence.
Yui looked at their linked fingers. “And if I get lost again?”
He smiled. “Then I’ll write you a map made of chords.”

---
They left the café just as the rain stopped. The street shimmered, and somewhere in the distance, a violinist played under an archway. A familiar song.
Hikari no Melody.
They stopped walking.
Yui listened.
Ren closed his eyes.
Two strangers—two hearts in the Vienna dark—held in place by something they'd created.
Music.

---
Back in her dorm, Yui sat on the edge of her bed while Ren stood near the door. Neither moved to say goodbye.
“It doesn’t feel real,” she said.
Ren nodded. “Maybe because it isn’t ending.”
She looked up. “Will we always find each other like this?”
Ren approached slowly. “No,” he said. “We’ll learn to walk side by side instead.”
Yui smiled. “Promise?”
He touched his temple with two fingers. “Pinky swear… in F major.”

---
They spent the weekend in stolen hours.
Picnics under late-blooming trees. Notes scribbled on napkins. A surprise performance in the park where Yui sang and Ren played as kids danced nearby.
They recorded a duet live on her phone. It wasn't perfect. There was laughter in the middle, a bark from a nearby dog, even Ren sneezing once.
But they posted it anyway.
The caption read:
> “This isn’t a final song. It’s a beginning.”



---
Two days before Ren’s return flight, Yui sat in front of her professor in a polished office.
He leaned back in his chair.
“You’re declining the scholarship?”
Yui nodded.
“I need to write somewhere else. With someone.”
The professor frowned. “Love is a beautiful muse, but it’s not a career.”
Yui smiled. “It’s not love I’m choosing. It’s the music we make when we’re not alone.”
He didn’t try to change her mind.
Only said, “Then play it well.”

---
Ren stood at the airport gate, bag over his shoulder, boarding pass in hand.
Yui didn’t cry.
She looked up at him and said, “I’ll follow soon. Not because I’m chasing you. But because this time, I want to walk into the music together.”
Ren looked around. No goodbye, no fanfare.
Just them.
“I’ll be waiting. Not with silence—but with sound.”

---
When he boarded the plane, Ren didn’t put on headphones.
He just closed his eyes and remembered.
The rooftop.
The sakura path.
The concert.
The silence.
And the song that filled it all.
Yui’s voice—woven through every measure of his heart.

---
Back in Tokyo, Ren started teaching music part-time at the community center near his high school. Kids gathered around him every weekend to learn chords, to write verses.
He called it:“Koe Project” — The Voice Project.
Inspired by one girl’s voice.

---
Yui returned to Japan a month later.
Quietly. No fanfare.
She showed up at the music room one Saturday afternoon.
Ren was teaching a group of kids. He looked up—and smiled mid-sentence.
She raised a lyric notebook.
He pointed at the empty piano.
She sat down.
And they played.

---
The song was unnamed.
Unfinished.
But it was theirs.
And for the first time in a long time—
They had nowhere else to be.