The moonlight poured into the old music room like liquid silver, making the polished floorboards shimmer. The windows were half-open, letting in the quiet night air, heavy with the scent of summer rain. It was the kind of silence that wasn't empty — it was waiting.
Rika sat at the piano, her back straight, her hair tied into a messy bun that had started to fall apart. Her fingers hovered over the keys, not pressing them yet — just brushing them like she was touching something sacred… or dangerous.
She hadn't told anyone she'd be here.
This room wasn't just for practice. It was memory. Solitude. Confession.
She pressed a single note.
Ding.
The sound echoed in the silence like a dropped tear.
Another note followed. Then two. A soft, stumbling melody took shape. It was uneven — but honest. Notes that quivered with uncertainty, like words caught in the throat. This wasn't something Rika had composed. It was something that was composing her.
Then — the door creaked.
Rika froze.
She didn't turn.
The sound of soft footsteps entered the room, unhurried, like they were careful not to disturb the air. A familiar scent followed — sandalwood and lavender. Warm, quiet.
"You always play alone?" came the voice.
Soft. Calm. But with weight. It was Ms. Kaori.
Rika swallowed. "I didn't expect anyone here."
"I could say the same," Kaori replied, stepping into the moonlight, her figure glowing ethereal. She wore a midnight-blue cardigan, styled loosely like a kimono, over a simple white dress that ended at her knees. Her dark hair was loose tonight, a rare sight. The cardigan swayed softly as she walked, like it too was breathing.
Kaori approached the piano but didn't sit. She stood beside it, watching Rika's profile.
"Neither did I," she said. "But I heard the piano from downstairs. And… I followed the sound."
Rika didn't reply. She shifted on the bench slightly, her shoulders tense.
"Do you want me to leave?" Kaori asked.
"No." It came out sharper than intended. Rika cleared her throat. "You can stay. If you want."
Kaori smiled, warm and sad. "Thank you."
She walked to the far side of the room and pulled out a chair. Instead of sitting on the piano bench, she sat there — close, but not intruding. She crossed one leg over the other, resting her hands in her lap.
Rika returned her gaze to the keys. Her fingers began to move again.
Kaori listened, saying nothing.
The melody stumbled, then rose. It wasn't classical. It wasn't perfect. But it was alive — full of jagged edges and haunting pauses. A melody of someone learning how to speak without words.
Kaori finally spoke. "It sounds like... you're looking for something."
Rika didn't stop playing. "Maybe I am."
"What is it?"
Rika paused. Her fingers hovered.
"I don't know yet," she said honestly. "Maybe it's peace. Maybe it's... permission to not be okay."
The words settled in the room like dust.
Kaori leaned forward, her voice softer. "You don't need permission. Not here."
Rika kept playing. "You say that. But when you're always the best — the girl who never breaks — people forget you're even human."
Kaori's expression softened.
"I know that feeling," she said.
Rika turned to her, eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you?"
"I used to be you," Kaori said, her voice touched by something deeper. "Gifted. Watched. Expected to shine. I thought if I played perfectly, I could silence everything inside me."
She looked down at her own hands. "But silence isn't peace. It's absence."
Rika's eyes flicked to Kaori's face — there was something in her gaze. A shadow of pain that hadn't fully healed.
"You quit performing," Rika said, remembering the rumors. "Why?"
Kaori took a breath. "Because I forgot why I started. Music became a mask instead of a mirror. And one day, I couldn't hear myself in it anymore."
The piano fell silent again. Rika's hands curled into her lap.
"I hate applause," Rika murmured suddenly. "It feels like knives."
Kaori's gaze sharpened slightly — not surprised, but moved. "Because it expects something from you?"
Rika nodded. "Because it demands you stay perfect."
"And you?" Kaori asked. "Do you demand that of yourself?"
"I don't know how not to."
Kaori stood up slowly and walked over to her. She didn't sit beside Rika. She simply stood there — close, steady.
"Can I?" she asked, gesturing to the keys.
Rika shifted slightly. "Sure."
Kaori sat beside her. Their shoulders nearly touched, but didn't. She pressed a key — one low, soft note. Then another. The notes felt older. Wiser.
"Let's try something," Kaori said. "You play a line. I'll answer."
Rika hesitated, then nodded.
She played a soft phrase — nervous, fluttering.
Kaori followed — grounded, gentle.
Rika smirked slightly. "You're good."
Kaori chuckled. "I've had time."
They continued — a conversation of notes. Back and forth. Fear and reassurance. Curiosity and memory. No words. Just presence.
Halfway through, Rika's hands began to tremble.
She paused.
Kaori placed her hand on top of Rika's, steady and warm.
"You don't have to hide here," she whispered.
Rika turned to her, eyes shining. "I'm scared that if I stop performing… there'll be nothing left."
Kaori looked into her eyes. "Then let's find out together."
Rika's breath hitched. And then — she smiled. Not the polished, school-perfect smile. But a cracked, raw one.
She began to play again.
This time, Kaori joined fully. Four hands. One melody. Mistakes and grace. Fear and freedom. The music wasn't perfect — but it was honest.
And for Rika, that was more than enough.
When the final note faded, they both sat in silence.
Kaori looked at her gently. "You're more than a performer, Rika."
Rika glanced at her. "And you're more than a teacher."
Their eyes lingered.
No one said the word — but something had shifted. A fragile bond had taken root. Not love yet. But understanding. And in this world of masks, that was rarer.
Rika stood, her body lighter somehow.
She bowed slightly. "Thank you… for tonight."
Kaori smiled, rising as well. "Thank you… for being real."
As Rika left the music room, her shoes echoing softly in the hallway, the melody still played in her head.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel alone.
She felt... seen.