The train slowed as it reached Kyoto Station. Ren Amamiya stepped onto the platform, violin case in hand, heart pounding louder than any melody he’d ever composed.
It had been two years since Yui had left for Vienna. Two years of letters, voice messages, music files sent across oceans. Two years of missing her voice in person — and now, finally, she was back.
Kyoto looked unchanged, but Ren wasn’t the same boy who had waved goodbye with shaking hands. He was taller now. His eyes held more depth. And in his pocket, something small and shining waited for the perfect moment.
---
They met under the cherry blossoms at Hikari Conservatory — the small music school they'd dreamed of starting together. The sakura trees were in full bloom, soft petals floating like snow in the sunlight.
Yui stood beneath one of the trees, her long coat swaying, a sketchbook in one hand and a folded piece of music in the other.
Ren approached, almost afraid she was an illusion.
But then she smiled.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he replied, voice tight with emotion.
No dramatic rush into each other's arms. Just a quiet, sacred moment — like the beginning of a new song.
---
They walked through the quiet campus, now alive with spring colors. Yui took Ren’s hand as they passed the old music room, now converted into their private studio.
Inside, everything smelled of polished wood and warm memories. A grand piano sat in the center. Sheet music lined the walls. One framed photo of them performing their first duet.
Yui opened her folded page. “I wrote something,” she said.
Ren grinned. “Me too.”
They exchanged sheets.
And laughed.
They’d written the same chorus.
---
That evening, golden light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the music hall. Yui sat at the piano, playing soft notes from their new composition.
Ren stood beside her, violin tucked under his chin — but he wasn’t playing yet.
He waited until the melody faded.
Then he set the violin down.
Walked slowly to Yui.
And knelt.
She blinked. “Ren…?”
He pulled a small case from his pocket. Opened it.
Inside: a delicate silver ring, shaped like a treble clef, with a single sapphire at the center.
“I once promised I’d write a song that only your heart would understand,” Ren said. “I think I’ve written a hundred. But none of them mean as much as this one.”
He held out the ring.
“Yui Tachibana, I don’t just want to make music with you. I want to grow old with you. Share silence, distance, seasons. Write lullabies and arguments and everything in between. Will you compose forever with me?”
Yui covered her mouth with her hands. Her eyes shimmered.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, Ren. A thousand times, yes.”
He slipped the ring on her finger. They stood. And kissed — soft, reverent, as if their hearts were signing a contract the universe had been waiting to hear.
The piano keys behind them gave a faint, accidental trill as Yui leaned back.
She laughed. “Even the room agrees.”
Ren smiled. “Then let’s play it together.”
They returned to their instruments, hearts aligned, fingers steady.
And began to play The Promise’s Refrain.
A song that no longer belonged to sorrow or longing.
But to forever.
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