I wake up standing.
Not in the lab. Not under fluorescent lights that turn skin to paper. Wind lifts my hair. My palm stings with the rough of bark because I grabbed a tree without asking. There's playground gravel under my shoes and a square of shade stretching like a quiet apology across my toes.
For a second my knees think about folding. Then the world steadies itself by pretending it was never moving.
Air smells like cut grass, dust, and the sugar a vendor breathes into his waffles. A dog yips. A bicycle chain murmurs. And threading through all of it is a sound with more grin than dignity: the wheezy cheer of a melodica.
The lab peels off me in layers—the open binders, the diagrams bristling with arrows, the chair that carves a trench between your shoulders, the notes about timelines that keep sprinting for the cliff. I remember blinking too long at a page, the kind of blink that tries to be sleep. Maybe I drifted. Maybe I fell. Maybe the night used me up and set me down here like a lost umbrella.
The melodica jumps a note, laughs at itself, tries again.
I turn.
She's on the low hill by the sandbox, shoes powdered beige, hair tied back with a ribbon that has never once done what it was told. Kaori Miyazono. She holds the melodica at a tilt, the plastic tube looped to her mouth. Small fingers clap around her ankles—kids orbiting sunlight. She plays a phrase that is wrong by the book and right by the lungs. When a little boy gets brave and toots the tube, she claps like he's just translated a secret.
I try to keep my face calm. The way you keep your hands hovering above the keys before the first note—quiet, ready, pretending not to shake.
This is where rational minds say: She's here. My brain, drunk on habit, tries to argue categories. Dream, it suggests. Afterlife, it offers. But dreams don't have splinters, and the afterlife probably isn't sticky from melted popsicles. This is earth. Cruel in detail, generous in the same breath.
Gravel crunches behind me—two rhythms. One quick and even: Tsubaki. One loose with swagger: Watari. They stop at my shoulder. Tsubaki doesn't talk right away. She never asks questions before she's counted how many there are.
Kaori looks up and, without the awkwardness strangers carry, lifts a hand. "Sawabe-chan!" she calls, already smiling like the greeting was scheduled. She bows to the kid as she retrieves the melodica—too formal for the instrument, perfect for the child—then jogs downhill. She takes little bouncing steps, as if the ground has rhythm and she's decided to respect it.
She reaches us and shoulder-bumps Tsubaki in hello. The ease between them is the kind that comes from shared moments—short, bright, already stitched into a small history. "You actually came," she teases.
"I said I would," Tsubaki says. Her eyes flick to me for half a second—assessing, reading, storing—then she returns to Kaori. When she looks back to me again, it's after my face has already failed to behave.
Watari's grin arrives a moment before his voice. "Yo," he says to Kaori, the syllable somehow wearing cologne. "Ryouta Watari. Athlete. Occasional scholar. Community service provider to children who demand piggyback rides."
Kaori adopts a serious nod. "A pillar of society," she says. "We should put you on a stamp."
"Please do," he says solemnly. "Preferably a large denomination."
She laughs, clean and immediate, then turns to me—no fumbling, no pretend introduction. Tsubaki moves the moment forward, casual as a toss. "This is the neighbor I told you about," she says to Kaori, chin tipping my way. "Kousei Arima."
Kaori brightens—not bigger, just deeper, like a backstage light switched on. "Arima-kun," she says, testing the name. "I've heard things."
The words land carefully. Not I heard you play. Not You're amazing. She couldn't have heard it; I haven't let the world hear me in years. Just rumors, the kind that travel in hallways and cling to doorframes.
I try for a joke and almost drop it. "All lies," I say, too fast.
Tsubaki's elbow finds my ribs—gentle, a reminder not to hide in shallow water.
Kaori tilts her head, amused. "Lies can be very flattering," she says. "They don't ask you to prove anything."
Up the hill, a small girl tries the melodica and produces a sound like a bicycle bell learning to be a trumpet. Kaori glances back and gives her a thumbs-up like a high five from across a street. The girl straightens by two centimeters.
Watari, who cannot allow attention to sit still longer than three seconds without getting bored, gestures at the kid crowd. "So... do you do pop-up concerts often? It's good for your brand."
Kaori gasps. "I have a brand?"
"You do now," he says. "It's chaos in a ribbon."
"Accurate," Tsubaki mutters.
Kaori rocks on her heels, the ribbon slipping like it's planning an escape. "We were practicing the art of not being perfect," she says to us, as if we were invited to the lesson. "It's important to do it where people can see you. Shame hates sunlight."
Tsubaki snorts. "You're dangerous."
"Only to statues," Kaori says. She taps the melodica's side with a fingernail. "This one is very anti-statue."
For a few seconds I forget how to be a person and just watch. She doesn't sparkle because she wants to be seen; she sparkles because she keeps finding things to hand the light to. In the gap between the jokes and the smile, there's something steady, practical: she notes the lost shoelace, the kid about to trip, the mother who needs a breath. Bright does not mean shallow. Not here.
Tsubaki is still monitoring me out of the edge of her eye. She lets a beat pass, another, and only then asks, offhand but weighted, "You okay?"
I blink. Remember the tree. "Yeah," I say. It wobbles but doesn't fall. "Just... bright."
"Good," she says. Her voice softens at the edges in that way she pretends not to notice. "Keep breathing anyway."
Kaori pretends to be studying the sky. She isn't. She's watching me without making it a performance. "You looked like you were somewhere else a second ago," she says, conversationally. "And the movie changed reels without asking."
I open my mouth and a dozen truths jostle for the door: lab, notes, if-only, too-late, what-if. None of them leave. "Kind of," I manage.
"Kind of is an excellent answer," Kaori says. "It leaves the future plenty of room."
Watari claps once, as if calling the scene to order. "Speaking of futures," he says, "what's next in the Kaori Miyazono Experience? Are there tour dates? Commemorative T-shirts?"
Kaori's eyes spark. The ribbon finally surrenders; she catches it mid-fall, bites one end, knots the other, doesn't bother to check if it's straight. "Actually," she says, voice turning mischievous and oddly shy at the same time, "there's a thing."
Little alarm bells ring in my bones. In some other version of my life, I know this beat. It's a door disguised as a sentence.
"I have a competition," she says, and then—before any of us can assume it's later—"today."
Tsubaki blinks. "Today-today?"
Kaori nods. "As in... later today. Shortly. The kind of 'later' that makes running politely necessary."
Watari brightens like a stage lamp. "A violin competition?"
"A chaos competition," Kaori corrects gently, then grins. "With violins."
She turns the melodica to hang by her side like a toy that has done its job. "You should come," she says, quick, as if rushing the invitation past my defenses. She points at Tsubaki first. "You." Then me. "You." Then to Watari, where her smile tilts a degree brighter. "And especially you, Watari-kun."
Watari beams, because of course he does.
Tsubaki tilts her head at me. The look means: We're going. It also means: If you faint I will invent a new kind of support.
My mouth is dry. The word competition used to be a cliff I stood on every day until I forgot there was ground. I stare at Kaori and all the old ghosts stir, not to haunt, but to watch. "We'll come," I hear myself say.
Kaori lights like she's been handed a small, important victory. "Good." She jerks her thumb toward the kids. "I have to return my adoring fans to their natural habitat and then sprint. The hall's a few stops away. I'll text you the location."
Tsubaki holds out her phone. Numbers are exchanged—clean, quick, practiced like scales. Kaori glances at me and hesitates for a heartbeat before adding mine. Not because she doubts. Because she understands the weight of asking and puts it down gently.
"I've only heard things about you, Arima-kun," she says, like a confession that wants to be a promise. "I want to hear the truth someday."
Someday lands neatly on the shelf inside my chest. Not now. Not a demand. Just a map pinned where I can see it.
Watari can't help performing. "We should probably... you know... escort you," he says. "For morale. And to carry imaginary flowers."
Kaori bows to him with mock gravity. "I accept your imaginary bouquet," she says. Then, lightly to Tsubaki, "Will you make sure he doesn't climb on the seats?"
"No promises," Tsubaki says. "He's basically a golden retriever."
"I am very loyal," Watari says proudly.
Kaori laughs one more time, turns, and jogs back up the hill. The kids swarm her like she magnetized them. She kneels to return the melodica, praises the bravery of a wobbling note, and shoo-herds everyone toward their parents with a series of small bows and thank-yous. She moves quickly but not frantically—like someone who knows exactly how much late the world will forgive if you smile at it correctly.
We wait by the path because it feels like the right verb. The sun shifts a fraction; leaves above us exchange quiet gossip. I rub the spot on my palm where the bark pressed. Texture. Proof.
"Okay," Tsubaki says at last, businesslike to cover the softness. "Here's the plan. We stay together. We clap like people with manners. We pretend Watari is a human."
"I am extremely human," Watari says. "Top three most human in our class."
"Debatable," she says. She tucks the phone away. "Location's in. It's not far."
Kaori trots back down, now with a small bag slung over her shoulder. The ribbon is tied badly and perfectly. She stops just short of us, bouncing once on her toes as if calibrating the next sprint. "Ready?" she asks, already turning.
"Lead the way," Tsubaki says.
Kaori lifts a hand to the kids, who wave like flags, then pivots and takes off at a careful run. We follow. Gravel tries to be a metronome beneath us. The park gate frames the street like a proscenium. Beyond it: buses shouldering the road, a line of vending machines humming, a sky that has learned how to be ordinary again.
We flow with Kaori through it. She doesn't barrel; she threads—reading crosswalks, timing lights, glancing back to make sure we didn't get shaken loose. Watari matches stride like he's chasing a ball. Tsubaki keeps pace without making a fuss, a fielding glove for emergencies. I run in that steady way that keeps surprise from spilling out of your pockets.
At the corner, Kaori pauses just long enough to let us collect. She points down the block. "Station's there," she says, and we dive into the cool echo of the stairs.
The station smells like brake dust and old announcements. A poster of a smiling mascot promises something it can't possibly deliver. A violin case passes in the opposite crowd on someone else's shoulder; my lungs forget their rhythm for two beats and then find it again. Kaori buys a ticket with the speed of someone who has practiced living late. We slide through the gates in her wake.
On the platform, wind arrives with the train before the train arrives. Kaori stands just at the safe line, toes touching paint, every part of her angled forward. Watari leans back on his heels, pretending not to be impressed by motion. Tsubaki positions herself between me and the part of the world that takes, which is a very Tsubaki thing to do.
Kaori glances sideways at me. The sideways glance is accurate; looking straight on would be too much like asking. "Thank you," she says suddenly, softly. "For coming."
"We didn't do anything yet," I say.
"You said yes," she answers. "Saying yes is always something."
The train pulls in. Doors yawn. We step into a car that smells like metal and gum and a hundred private stories. Kaori grabs the overhead strap with one hand, the bag strap with the other. Watari plants his feet like a surfer. Tsubaki finds the pole and hooks her fingers lightly. I stand near the doors where the glass steals our faces and edits them into commuters.
The train jerks. We sway. City blurs into a sequence: concrete, sky, sign, reflection, me.
Kaori's phone buzzes; she checks the time without panic. "We're good," she declares. "We'll even have a few minutes to breathe and pretend we don't care."
"Do you pretend often?" Tsubaki asks.
"All the time," Kaori says. "Pretending not to care leaves space for caring to sneak up and surprise you later."
Watari considers that like a philosophical snack. "I pretend to be humble," he says.
"Try pretending to be on time," Tsubaki says.
Stations tick by. Kaori doesn't fidget. She breathes in counts I can read without hearing: four in, four out. Not calm—the kind of steady you make with your hands so the music can be wild and not fall apart.
She catches me noticing and grins. "Warm-ups," she says, as if breathing were scales. "I don't want to injure myself doing something dramatic."
"You? Dramatic?" Tsubaki says dryly.
"Occasionally," Kaori admits.
The train slows. The doors open with a chime that never wants to be different. We spill out and follow the arrows that lie about how short the walk will be. The hall is tucked behind a row of polite trees, its brick trying to look older than it is. Posters crowd the bulletin boards—names, dates, the polite forms of ambition.
Kaori stops just outside the entrance and faces us like a captain who has remembered where the ship is going. The noise of a lobby leaks through the glass: shoes on tile, program paper whispering, a laugh that believes itself.
"This is me," she says, and suddenly the brightness thins at the edges to let something naked come through. She looks at me, not away. "I'll see you after?"
"After," Tsubaki says for us when my mouth decides to be slow.
Watari salutes, halfway ironic. "We'll be thunder," he says, then adds quickly at Tsubaki's glare, "respectful thunder."
Kaori presses her lips together, joy trying and failing to keep a straight face. "Thank you," she says again, softer than the lobby noise but louder than the part of me that wants to run. She steps backward, pushes the door with her shoulder, and slips inside. For a heartbeat the glass holds her reflection and mine on the same plane. Then she's gone—swallowed by programs and ushers and the smell of polish.
We stand there. The hallway breathes. I feel the outline of the tree bark again in my palm, even though it's long behind us.
Tsubaki nudges me forward. "Come on," she says. "Seats don't save themselves."
Watari flicks his collar like it matters. "I'm going to clap so politely they'll write me a thank-you note."
"Clap at the right times," Tsubaki says. "Don't start a wave."
We step into the lobby. It's all small echoes and quiet nerves. People speak in recital voices—low, excited, pretending not to be. An usher hands us programs with a smile that has seen everything twice. I scan the names even though I don't need to. There she is: Kaori Miyazono. The title of her piece sits beside her name, obedient, unaware of the trouble it's about to cause in the air.
Tsubaki tucks the program under her arm and hooks her other arm through mine like we're already escaping something together. "Ready?" she asks, not teasing.
I think of the lab, the notes, the way exhaustion tries to convince you that forward is a myth. I think of dust on shoes and a ribbon fighting gravity and a melodica teaching courage in public. I think of the word today like a door.
"Yeah," I say. It's almost steady. "Let's go listen."
We walk toward the auditorium doors, into the hush that knows how loud it's about to get.