A week had passed in a blur.
For Haruya, it felt like his days had been given a new rhythm, a new melody to follow.
His life, once a simple schedule of baking and cooking, had now become a complex symphony, filled with new notes and unexpected crescendos.
He was now officially a student of Hiroko Seto, a world-renowned pianist, and his training with Erina Nakiri at the Nakiri Estate had become more frequent.
He was juggling his life during this summer break with the demanding schedules of two different arts, and surprisingly, despite being busy all the time, he loved every minute of it.
The first part of his week started with his first love: baking.
He was at his family's bakery, the warm, comforting smell of fresh bread and sweet pastries filling the air.
It was a scent that had been a constant in his life due to his mom.
A smell that meant home and family.
The air was thick with the scent of yeast, toasted sugar, and the faint, sweet perfume of baking fruit.
He was in the kitchen, a place he considered his second home, working alongside his mother, Akari.
They were working on a recipe, a delicate strawberry shortcake that was a customer favorite.
It was a classic recipe, but his mother believed that even the simplest desserts could be elevated with the right touch.
"The key is in the cream, Haruya," Akari said, her hands moving expertly as she whipped the heavy cream.
The rhythmic sound of the whisk against the stainless steel bowl was familiar and comforting, a constant in the atmosphere of the bakery. "It has to be just right. Not too stiff, not too runny. It needs to hold its shape but still be light and fluffy, like a cloud. That's what makes it feel special, you see. It should be a surprise on the tongue, a whisper of sweetness rather than a shout."
Haruya nodded, his eyes fixed on her hands.
The fluid, practiced motion of her wrist was a lesson in itself.
He took a bowl of cream and began to whip it himself, his hand moving in a steady, rhythmic motion.
The first few turns were easy, the cream a liquid rush, but as he continued, he felt the subtle resistance build. The sound changed from a slosh to a light, airy rustle.
He could feel the tiny bubbles forming and growing, capturing air and transforming the liquid into a viscous, velvety substance.
It was a meditative process, one that required patience and a keen sense of touch.
He instinctively knew when to stop, pulling the whisk out to reveal a perfect, ethereal cloud of cream that held its peak without a single wobble. It was a beautiful, pure white form, ready to be spread.
"Just like that," Akari said, a proud smile on her face. "You have such a good sense for these things. It's in your blood, you know. I have that same intuition."
"The pastry talks to me," Haruya joked. "I can just... tell what it needs. If the cream is too cold, it's angry. If it's too warm, it's sad. Right now, this cream is singing a happy song."
Akari chuckled softly, indulging her son. "It's a gift, Haruya. A gift that you must cherish. Not everyone can hear the song of the pastry."
They moved on to the sponge cake.
Akari showed him how to fold the flour in gently, careful not to overmix and deflate the airy batter. The smell of the baking cake filled the bakery, a sweet, warm aroma that made his stomach rumble.
Later, they layered the cake with the perfect cream and fresh, ripe strawberries.
When a slice was cut and put on a plate for display, a customer, a middle-aged woman with a kind smile, walked up to the counter.
"Oh, a new strawberry shortcake?" she said, her eyes lighting up. "It looks beautiful. I think I'll have a slice."
Haruya's father, Kenjiro, who was idle at home and had nothing else to do, was manning the front counter, beaming. "It's a new addition from my wife and son. It's truly a work of art, if I do say so myself."
Haruya rolled his eyes at his dad's remark.
This old man of his gave Rina and Hiroki a day off just to experience idle time with his son and wife.
The thought was nice and sweet, but despite managing one of the biggest businesses in the world, he was surprisingly a bad cashier, but with a glib tongue.
The woman bought a slice and took a bite, her eyes widening in surprise. "Oh, my goodness," she said, her voice full of delight. "This is... incredible. The cream is so light, and the strawberries are so fresh. This is the best shortcake I've ever had."
She finished her slice in a matter of minutes, then bought two more to take home for her family, a testament to its simple perfection.
Haruya watched from the kitchen, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling in his heart.
It was a different kind of joy from playing the piano, but it was no less profound.
He loved the process of creating, of transforming simple ingredients into something that could bring a smile to someone's face. It was a simple, honest pleasure.
The praise of a stranger felt just as rewarding as the applause after a performance.
The next day, he was at Hiroko Seto's house in Nerima, ready for their piano lesson. He sat on the bench in front of the grand piano, a little nervous but mostly excited.
The room was bright and airy, a single window looking out onto a small, manicured garden. The piano itself felt like a living creature, a quiet, powerful presence waiting to be brought to life.
Hiroko stood behind him, with a serious expression on her face.
"Alright, Haruya," she said, her voice was calm and firm. "We're not going to waste our time on scales. You've already surpassed that. Today, we're going to start with something that will test not just your ability to read music, but your ability to feel it."
She placed a sheet of music on the stand.
It was a piece he didn't recognize.
He looked at the name at the top of the page: Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2, first movement.
His eyes widened.
This was no simple beginner's piece.
This was a monster.
The piece was known for its emotional depth and technical difficulty.
It was a piece that required not just skill, but a certain life experience, a certain level of soul.
It was a piece that demanded everything from the player, and gave back a thousandfold in raw, beautiful emotion.
"I'll play it for you first," she said, sensing his surprise. "Just listen. Don't think about the notes. Think about the story. Don't just hear the music; feel it in your bones. Let it enter your heart and leave an impression."
She sat down and began to play.
The music that came from her was powerful and emotional, a beautiful, haunting piece that filled the room.
Her hands moved with grace, each note a perfect testament to her years of experience. It was like she wasn't just playing, but was telling a story, a story of pain, of hope, of an unyielding will.
The notes weren't just sounds; they were tears, they were laughter, they were the weight of a heavy heart and the freedom of a soaring spirit.
Haruya closed his eyes, and he could see a world forming around him, a world of beautiful, melancholic imagery. He saw a cold, winter night and a lone figure walking through a forest.
He saw a flash of lightning and a storm raging. He saw the sun rising over a quiet field. The melody swelled, then fell, a cascade of pure emotion that left him breathless.
When she finished, the room was silent.
Haruya felt a profound sense of awe.
Her playing was completely different from his. Where his was elegant and regal, hers was raw and emotional, a storm of feeling that completely consumed him.
A bit similar to Emi Igawa's playing style.
He felt a lump in his throat, a mix of emotions he couldn't name.
It was beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. It was a piece that spoke of a life lived, of triumphs and sorrows he had yet to experience.
"Now, you try," she smiled.
Despite only having played it once in front of him, during the past few days of practice, she was completely convinced of his skill and great memory.
Haruya took a deep breath and placed his hands on the keys.
He started from the beginning, his fingers moving with a natural grace. He played the first few bars with his signature elegance, but as he continued, he found himself struggling a little.
The piece was so demanding, so full of emotion that he didn't know how to express.
He was playing the notes perfectly, his fingers striking each key with flawless precision, but the feeling, the heart of the piece, was missing.
It was like he was speaking a language he didn't understand. The music felt hollow, a perfect shell with nothing inside. He could feel her watching him, and he knew she could tell.
Hiroko-sensei stopped him gently. "Don't just play the notes, Haruya-kun," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Feel them. Let the music flow through you. You have a beautiful talent, but it's like a raw diamond. It's beautiful on its own, but it needs to be cut and polished to truly shine. We will work on that. You have the skill, now you must find the soul. The notes are the words, but the feeling is the poem. You must understand the poem to truly share it."
Haruya nodded, a new sense of purpose filling him. He had always relied on his ability, but now he had a new goal: to not just play the music, but to feel it, to express it, to make others feel what he felt.
Just like in the art of culinary, he had to find a way for his audience to feel the same way as eating a cake.
To have it resonate within.
And of course, improving his baking and piano skills was not the only thing he juggled.
His culinary training with Erina Nakiri was a completely different story.