Chapter 5: The Piano Doesn’t Cry

There’s a strange kind of comfort in getting punched in the face.

Not because I’m a masochist. (Let’s not jump to conclusions.)

But because pain—real, tangible, unromanticized pain—is simple. It doesn't lie. It doesn't manipulate you with hope. It just hurts. And then it goes away.

Unlike people.

Anyway, that’s how my morning started. Bloody lip, sore jaw, another underground brawl at some abandoned warehouse pretending to be a “club.”

The guy I fought was new. Big arms, zero footwork. The kind that thinks muscle means invincible. He came in swinging like a demolition crane.

Too bad for him, I’ve been the ruin long before he arrived.

I dodged, countered, elbowed. Rinse. Repeat. He went down after round two, drooling blood and pride.

The crowd roared, beer flew, money changed hands. Another night of violence masked as entertainment.

I left before they asked me to smile.

---

Outside, the wind was sharp.

Not romantic “cool breeze on your cheek” sharp. More like “your ex’s parting words” sharp.

I walked the usual path—back alleys, rusted stairwells, graffiti murals screaming things they were too afraid to say out loud.

Then I heard it again.

The piano.

That same alley, same cracked bench, same silence-wrapped girl sitting in front of an upright piano someone had left to rot beside a noodle shop.

Except this time, the music wasn’t playful. It wasn’t light. It was slow, dragging its notes like a funeral procession.

I stopped walking.

Yeah, okay. Fine. I admit it. I stopped because it felt… familiar.

Not the tune. The emotion.

She didn’t acknowledge me at first. Her fingers kept dancing over the keys, light as feathers. Eyes closed—but not by choice. She was blind, after all.

When the melody finally ended, it felt like the whole alley exhaled.

I asked before my brain could stop me:

“Was that supposed to be sad?”

She tilted her head slightly. Not surprised. Almost like she’d been expecting the question.

“I think the piano cries for me when I can’t,” she said.

I stared. That was… a hell of a sentence.

I wanted to say something clever. Something distant. Maybe sarcastic.

Instead, I said:

“…It sounds honest.”

She turned slightly toward me. “You’re the fighter boy, right?”

That made me blink.

“You recognize me?”

“I don’t need eyes to know who walks like they’re carrying a broken world on their back.”

She smiled. Small. Not pitiful. Just… knowing.

“And you have heavy footsteps.”

“…I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said. “Means you’re loud.”

“Noted.”

I sat on the steps across from her. The concrete was cold. And weirdly comforting.

“I’m Kazuki,” I said, because maybe names matter now.

“Rin,” she replied. “Short for Rinko. But I hate that name. Sounds like a bubblegum idol.”

“Noted again.”

She smiled again, this time brighter.

There was a silence after that. Not awkward. Not comfortable. Just… shared.

She started playing again. Something softer. The notes danced like windchimes on a rainy afternoon.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “How do you do that? Make it sound like something I can feel?”

“I don’t think. I just play,” she said. “The keys don’t judge me. I don’t have to explain myself.”

“…Must be nice.”

She stopped. Her fingers hovered.

“You say that like you don’t have something that keeps you sane.”

“I fight.”

“That doesn’t sound sane.”

“Exactly.”

A small laugh escaped her. It was brief. Fragile. But real.

Then silence again.

I didn’t leave this time. I stayed. I didn’t even realize how long until the moon was higher than the neon signs.

Eventually, she said, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“I talk when I feel like it.”

“Guess I’m lucky then.”

I didn’t answer.

She played one final piece. It wasn’t happy. It wasn’t sad. It was… in-between. Like something drifting.

When she stopped, I said:

“You’re really something.”

She just tilted her head and whispered, “So are you.”

---

When I finally walked away, my knuckles still hurt. But something else felt… different.

Not lighter. Not heavier.

Just a little less alone.

And in a world full of broken things and bloody fists, maybe that was enough for now.

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