The sky draped the city like a shroud.
In the maze of streets, neither color nor scent remained. Everything had been silenced. The air was dry, the silence sticky. The parched earth clung to its last breath of life.
Only one command echoed from the digital billboards:
"Only voices approved by the State may sing."
Each word clawed at the eardrum, pressing down on the mind. The frequency of emotions was deemed a crime, the touch of melodies on memory, a threat.
Mizue quickened her pace with all her strength. A weight pressed against her chest as she gazed out through the dust-stained glass. Even breathing felt like a crime. The knot in her throat held back the first note of a song long forbidden.
She placed her trembling fingers on her heart.
Itsuki stepped silently beside her, guitar slung across his back. The strings were wrapped in cloth—like his wounds, bound but not healed. He looked at Mizue but said nothing.
At that moment, the old song inside Mizue rose to her throat. She tried to suppress it. She failed.
The sound found its own way out.
The instant the first syllable left her lips, time slowed. Raindrops froze in the air. Mizue's eyes widened. Itsuki's guitar trembled. The earth itself seemed to feel her voice.
They understood.
This was no ordinary sound. It was forbidden—yes. But also a reminder. It whispered of lost colors, suppressed feelings, silenced pasts.
The song that had once begun with her mother's soprano now rose from Mizue like a new life.
And for the first time in years, the city began to breathe again.
As thin drops of rain trickled from the sky, the scent of earth returned. And just then, from a crack in the pavement by the roadside, a lotus flower bloomed.
A Few Days Earlier
Deep within the hidden refuge, the air reeked of rust and damp. As the lights flickered, shadows danced across the walls like echoes of the past.
Mizue had followed the trail of a coded note sent only to the most trusted. At the bottom of the page, hand-drawn, was a single symbol: a broken musical note.
The door creaked open. A young man stepped in, carrying an old guitar case on his back. His eyes were cautious but not surprised. Mizue had thought him ordinary at first—until she noticed the metal emblem of earth engraved on his guitar's neck.
"You too… you're one of those who hasn't forgotten the sound?" Itsuki spoke in a low voice.
Mizue didn't answer. She only stepped back.
"Who gave you this address?"
Itsuki shrugged.
"Didn't you call me here?"
Silence.
He pulled a small card from his pocket. In fading pencil on the corner, it read:
"Only those who hear the heart can truly understand you."
Itsuki sighed.
"I found it in my bag. I… I just came. My family was hurt. If this is a trap, then at least it's one worth risking."
Mizue's face darkened. She stepped closer, slowly.
"I can't trust anyone."
Itsuki unzipped his guitar case. The strings were old, but the soul was alive. With a single touch, vibrations rippled against the stone walls. Mizue's eyes narrowed.
"I can hear the earth," Itsuki said quietly. "And the true voices. I heard yours. Last night, in the rain."
Mizue froze. She spoke with effort.
"Are there others who know?"
"Yes. Makoto."
"Makoto…?" Mizue's breath caught.
"So he's the one who brought us together."
"You know him too, then. That should give you some comfort."
They both knew time was short. Until Makoto joined them—without drawing the State's eyes—they would have to work together.
The obstacle before them could not be broken alone.
It needed rhythm.
It needed time.
And without Makoto, the song could never be complete.