Chapter 3 - Sharp Words

—Because apparently being blind doesn’t stop you from reading people like a book.

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I didn’t plan on going back.

Really.

I mean, it’s not like I had her keyboard melody stuck in my head for the past 24 hours. And it definitely wasn’t keeping me up last night while I stared at my ceiling like a depressed protagonist in a bad romance drama.

But here I was.

Again.

Same alley. Same girl. Same haunting little tune leaking out of broken keys and stubborn fingers.

She was sitting on a cardboard mat this time. Upgraded furniture, I guess.

The sun was setting, casting everything in that warm orange glow that makes even ugly places look poetic. Too bad the stench of rotting trash ruined the vibe.

I leaned against the wall, silent.

She kept playing.

The notes were slower today. Softer. Like they were walking barefoot instead of marching.

After a minute, she stopped.

> “You again,” she said.

Not a question. A statement.

Like I was just another part of the alley now. A trash can. A broken sign. A brooding guy with unresolved trauma and no hobbies.

> “Didn’t get enough of my world-famous alley concerts, huh?”

I remained quiet.

She smirked.

> “Still not talking? You know, most creeps at least try to be charming.”

“...I’m not charming.”

Wow.

Did I actually say that out loud?

She laughed.

Actually laughed. Like, full-on tilted her head back and giggled.

It was infuriatingly light. Like her voice hadn’t been anywhere near the kind of darkness I knew. Like she didn’t deserve to sound that happy in a place like this.

> “No kidding,” she said. “You’ve got the aura of a haunted vending machine.”

That’s… accurate. Unfortunately.

I took a step forward. She tilted her head toward me instinctively.

> “So? You gonna tell me your name today, Mr. Quiet Shoes?”

I hesitated.

Names are dangerous.

They give people pieces of you. Openings.

But then again, she didn’t even know what I looked like.

“…Kazuki.”

She raised an eyebrow.

> “Huh. Sharp name. Sounds like someone who punches people for a living.”

…I didn’t answer.

Her smirk widened.

> “Bingo, huh? Don’t worry, I won’t judge. Well—actually, I will, but I won’t stop talking to you.”

I sat down across from her, keeping a respectable three feet of “social anxiety” distance.

She played another tune, this one slightly happier. Off-key, but confident. Like a drunk cat learning jazz.

> “So, Kazuki the Human Punching Bag,” she said between chords. “Do you actually like fighting?”

I shrugged. “I’m good at it.”

> “That’s not what I asked.”

I paused.

“No.”

That earned another smile.

> “Well, good. If you said yes, I’d have to throw this keyboard at you.”

I looked at the busted piece of plastic in her lap.

“I think I’d survive.”

> “Bold of you to assume I aim for the chest.”

A moment passed.

We sat there in the golden light, the hum of distant traffic above us, the buzz of old neon signs coming to life behind.

> “You’re weird,” she said quietly.

“You play piano in a garbage alley.”

> “Touché, Mr. Quiet Shoes.”

Silence again. Not uncomfortable. Just… still.

Then she said, almost offhandedly:

> “You don’t talk much. But when you do, you don’t lie. I like that.”

I didn’t respond.

Because I was too busy trying to ignore the fact that someone liked something about me.

And that was dangerous.