Chapter 1: — "Silent Strings"

The last rays of sunlight slipped through the dusty classroom windows, staining the wooden floor with streaks of gold. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, carried by the faint breeze of an old electric fan that hummed in the corner. The school was quiet now, emptied of laughter and footsteps, its halls filled with the stillness of after-hours.

In that silence, a single sound bloomed.

A violin.

The bow danced across the strings, coaxing out notes both fragile and sharp, trembling yet certain. The music filled the abandoned classroom like a secret confession, each phrase spilling what words could not.

Miyu Takahara’s eyes were closed as she played, her slim fingers pressing against the fingerboard with practiced ease. The violin rested gently against her shoulder, its polished body reflecting the fading light. She didn’t think, she didn’t dare. The music wasn’t something she read from sheet paper. It came from somewhere deeper, from the space inside her chest that ached with things she couldn’t speak aloud.

When she played, the world dissolved. She wasn’t the quiet girl no one noticed in class, the one teachers praised for her grades but forgot at festivals. She wasn’t the daughter of strict parents who believed music was a distraction, something childish she would “grow out of.”

Here, with the violin in her hands, Miyu was… herself.

The last note lingered in the air, trembling into silence. Miyu opened her eyes slowly, her lashes brushing against her cheeks. She let out a soft breath, lowering the violin. For a moment, the classroom was still again.

Then—

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound startled her. She nearly dropped the bow.

Her head snapped toward the doorway, heart thundering.

A boy leaned against the frame, grinning. His school jacket hung loosely over his shoulders, tie undone, as if the uniform rules had long since given up on taming him. Tousled black hair fell over his forehead, and his dark eyes sparkled with amusement. In his hand, he held a guitar case, slightly battered and covered with stickers.

“You’re amazing,” he said, his voice carrying an easy warmth. “Seriously… that gave me chills.”

Miyu’s breath caught in her throat. Heat flooded her face.
“You... how long were you—?” she stammered, her grip tightening on the violin as if it could shield her.

“Long enough.” The boy chuckled, stepping into the classroom. His shoes squeaked faintly against the wood. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I was just passing by and… well, I couldn’t help it. You play beautifully.”

Miyu shrank back a step, eyes lowering to the floor. Compliments always felt like they carried weight she couldn’t bear. “I-I was just… practicing,” she murmured.

“Practicing, huh?” He tilted his head, studying her. “That didn’t sound like practice. That sounded like… music. Like someone putting their whole heart into it.”

Miyu’s chest tightened. Nobody had ever said something like that to her before. Not her classmates, who didn’t know she played. Not her parents, who dismissed her hours of hidden practice as wasted time.

The boy walked farther in, resting his guitar case on one of the desks. He offered a hand with an easy grin.
“I’m Ren. Ren Kisaragi. Second year.”

Miyu blinked, hesitating before bowing her head instead of shaking it. “Takahara Miyu… second year as well.”

Ren scratched the back of his neck, laughing lightly. “Guess we’re classmates then. Funny how I never noticed.”

Of course he never did, Miyu thought bitterly. Hardly anyone did. She was the kind of person who slipped through the cracks, fading into the background.

Ren leaned casually against a desk. “So, Miyu... mind if I ask something?”

She clutched her violin tighter. “…What?”

“Why do you always hide?”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “I-I don’t—”

“You do,” Ren said simply, not unkindly. “I’ve been looking for people who can play. For the festival. And you—” he pointed lightly at her violin— “you’ve got something special. But instead of showing the world, you’re here, playing in an empty classroom after school.”

Miyu’s throat felt dry. She couldn’t find words.

Ren smiled, softer this time. “I’m not saying it’s wrong. I just… think it’s a waste to keep it all bottled up. Music’s meant to be heard, don’t you think?”

Her heart pounded painfully. Of course she wanted people to hear. She wanted to stand on a stage, to let her music fly. But she also saw her mother’s disapproving gaze, her father’s stern silence, the weight of expectation pressing down on her every day.

“…It’s not that simple,” she whispered.

Ren tilted his head, but didn’t push. Instead, he leaned down, picking up his guitar case and flipping it open. Inside was a well-worn acoustic guitar, strings gleaming faintly. He strummed once, the chord rough but vibrant, filling the room.

“Then let’s make it simple,” he said. “Play with me.”

Miyu’s eyes widened. “W-what?”

“One song. Right now. Doesn’t have to be perfect. Doesn’t even have to make sense. Just… music. You and me.”

Her instinct screamed no. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t even know him. And yet, something about the way he smiled, carefree and earnest, tugged at her chest.

Ren began strumming a gentle rhythm, nodding toward her.
“C’mon, Miyu. Just follow along.”

Her hands trembled as she raised the violin again. The bow hovered above the strings. For a long moment, she hesitated.

Then, slowly, she drew the bow across.

The violin sang. The guitar answered.

And for the first time, Miyu Takahara wasn’t alone in her music.