Yuki didn't move at first. The single piano note hovered in the air like it wasn't sure whether it belonged there. It wasn't loud or dramatic. If anything, it sounded… polite. The kind of sound someone makes when they lightly tap your shoulder to see if you're busy.
He let his raised arm drop and turned toward the door, expecting to see someone walking past. The hallway, visible through the narrow glass panel, was empty. Silent. There wasn't even a shadow stretching across the floor.
But then came a second note, higher than the first. Then a third, forming the start of a tiny melody that sounded more like a question than a song.
Yuki blinked at the door again. "Seriously?" he whispered to himself.
The building was old, and sometimes sound drifted in strange ways, but this wasn't some clumsy warmup from a beginner. Whoever was on that piano had a touch like falling snow — delicate but sure. The three notes they played felt intentional, like they were waiting for something. Or someone.
He took a hesitant step—not toward the door, but toward the center of the room where the light fell the clearest.
Instantly, the piano answered with another soft phrase.
Yuki stopped again.
"Oh, come on," he muttered, cheeks warming despite himself. It was ridiculous. It had to be a coincidence. Maybe the player was rehearsing simple intervals, or—
He raised his arm experimentally.
A gentle glissando floated through the hallway.
He lowered it slowly.
Two descending notes followed.
Yuki's mouth parted in disbelief, a small, breathy laugh escaping him. "No way…"
He wasn't frightened, not even confused in a serious sense. It was more like stumbling into a weird, magical inside joke he didn't understand yet. The warm kind of weird. The kind that makes your stomach flutter a little because something about it doesn't feel wrong — just unexpected.
He took a deeper breath, straightened his posture, and slid one foot back across the floor. The wooden boards creaked lightly under his shoe, and instantly, the piano responded with a soft chord that rose like a sunrise.
Yuki's heartbeat fluttered.
Okay. Someone was definitely doing this on purpose.
But how? They couldn't see him. The windows didn't open to any place someone could peek through. The door was closed. The hallway was empty.
Still… it was happening.
He stepped into a slow turn. As if on cue, the piano brightened into a small, cheerful melody that wrapped around his movement perfectly. Yuki let out a startled laugh mid-turn, stumbling slightly at how natural it felt.
It was ridiculous how quickly his body reacted — not just to the notes, but to the feeling behind them. The music wasn't dramatic or intense. It didn't feel like someone trying to show off. It felt playful. Curious. Like the pianist was figuring him out step by step, but gently, cautiously, in a way that somehow made Yuki's chest feel light.
He slid into another movement — a simple arm extension he'd practiced a thousand times before — and the piano softened, matching the gesture with a small swell that almost felt like a breath.
This was insane.
And yet… he didn't want it to stop.
Yuki let the music lead him. Not with choreography, but with instinct. The kind of dancing he rarely let himself do anymore because it wasn't "productive" or "technical." It was the kind he did when he was younger — when dancing felt like talking to the universe and having it answer in feelings instead of words.
He took a step forward.
The piano responded warmly.
He took another.
The melody curved gently around him like a voice smiling. He didn't know how else to describe it — the sound wasn't just music anymore; it felt like someone's personality leaking through the keys. Someone shy but expressive. Someone who liked watching just as much as doing.
Yuki spun.
The piano flickered with a bright, happy sequence that made something inside him spark unexpectedly.
"Oh my god," he whispered, unable to stop himself from grinning. "This is actually happening."
He wasn't afraid.He wasn't confused.He was thrilled.
Someone out there understood his movements in a way that felt impossible. Someone who didn't need to see him to match him. Someone who somehow found the exact emotional notes that made his body respond instantly.
He danced for another minute, maybe two, letting the invisible player guide him into shapes he hadn't planned. The music wasn't complicated or showy; it was warm and lively, with little bursts of energy that felt like laughter. He almost felt like the pianist was blushing with every mistake he made, every turn he rushed, every slip of his foot.
Finally, Yuki slowed to a stop, chest rising and falling gently.
And the piano… stopped with him.
Silence settled over the studio, but it wasn't heavy. It felt like two kids catching their breath after playing tag.
Yuki walked slowly toward the door, half expecting someone to be waiting. He cracked it open, peeking out into the hallway.
Nothing.
No pianist.No shoes slapping the floor in a retreat.No rustling bags or chairs.
Just warmth.Like whoever it was had left seconds before he reached the door.
He stood there for a moment, the corners of his mouth lifted without him realizing. His body still hummed with the echo of the melody.
He didn't know who the pianist was.
But he knew this much:
They had felt… sweet.
Like the music equivalent of a shy smile.