The cherry blossoms in Tomoeda had long since fallen, replaced by the heavy, emerald leaves of late summer. The air was thick with the rhythmic drone of cicadas, a sound that usually brought a sense of peace to Tomoyo Daidouji. But today, the sound felt like a countdown.
Inside the Daidouji mansion, the atmosphere was uncharacteristically quiet. The usual hum of sewing machines was silent, and the halls felt larger, echoing with the soft footsteps of servants moving crates.
Tomoyo stood in the center of her room, her hands folded over a lavender silk dress. For years, this room had been a sanctuary for her creativity. Every corner held a piece of her devotion to Sakura—shelves filled with memory cards, drawers overflowing with lace and thread, and a wall of screens where she had spent thousands of hours editing videos.
She looked at her large, open trunks. They looked like empty mouths waiting to be fed. Taking a deep breath, she began to pack, not just clothes, but her entire identity. She carefully wrapped her most expensive camera lenses in velvet. Each lens had captured a different battle, a different smile, a different tear.
If I take all of these, Tomoyo thought, her fingers trembling slightly, will I ever stop looking through the viewfinder?
A few hours later, the doorbell echoed through the foyer. Tomoyo's friends had arrived for one final gathering. Chiharu, Naoko, and the ever-talkative Yamazaki stepped onto the terrace, followed by Syaoran Li, who looked unusually stiff in his casual clothes.
"We brought enough snacks to feed a whole dorm in London!" Chiharu announced, holding up a heavy bag. "And Naoko brought a book about British etiquette so you don't accidentally offend a Duke or something."
"Actually," Yamazaki interjected, his eyes glinting behind his glasses, "British etiquette was originally invented by a group of singing bakers in the 15th century who wanted to make sure people didn't drop crumbs on the King's carpet. They used to measure the distance between a fork and a knife using a—"
"Yamazaki-kun, not today," Chiharu sighed, though her voice lacked its usual bite. There was a sadness in her eyes that she couldn't hide.
They sat around the garden table, the same table where they had shared so many laughs during their middle school years. The conversation was a strange mix of forced cheerfulness and looming nostalgia. They talked about Naoko's literature studies and Chiharu's interest in sports journalism.
"It feels like we're finally becoming the adults we used to dream about," Naoko said softly, stirring her tea. "But I didn't think it would feel this... empty."
Tomoyo smiled gently. "It's not empty, Naoko-chan. It's just a new shape. We're all just changing form, like the clouds."
As the afternoon light began to turn golden, Syaoran approached Tomoyo while the others were arguing over a game of cards.
"Daidouji," he began, looking at the horizon. "I've never been good with words, but I wanted to say... thank you. For everything you've done for Sakura. And for me."
Tomoyo was surprised. Syaoran was usually very private about his feelings. "You don't need to thank me, Syaoran-kun. Seeing Sakura-chan happy is my greatest reward."
"I know," Syaoran replied, finally meeting her eyes. "But I also know that you've spent your whole life being her support. London is a long way to go to find your own stage. I hope you find what you're looking for. And don't worry about her. I'll protect her with everything I have."
"I know you will," Tomoyo said, feeling a sense of peace. "That's why I can finally leave."
The sun set, and the friends departed one by one, until only Sakura remained. The two girls went up to the rooftop balcony, the place where so many of their adventures had begun. The moon was a silver sliver in the sky, reflecting in Sakura's emerald eyes.
"Tomoyo-chan," Sakura whispered, leaning against the railing. "Is it selfish of me to want to hide your passport?"
Tomoyo laughed, a soft, musical sound. "Only a little. But then I would never hear you cheer for me when I perform on the news."
Sakura turned to her, her expression becoming serious. "I've been thinking. All those times you made me costumes... all those times you filmed me... were you ever sad that you weren't the one in the light?"
Tomoyo looked at her hands. "Never sad, Sakura-chan. Being near you was like being near the sun. It was warm and beautiful. But even the moon needs to go to the other side of the world sometimes, just to see if it can shine on its own. I want to know what my voice sounds like when it's not just a harmony for yours."
They stayed there for a long time, held in a comfortable silence. Sakura reached out and grabbed Tomoyo's pinky finger with her own, their old childhood promise.
"I'll be your number one fan," Sakura promised. "Even from thousands of miles away."
The next morning, the airport was a blur of cold air and bright lights. Tomoyo's mother, Sonomi, stood near the gate, her professional armor finally cracking. She held Tomoyo's shoulders, her grip firm.
"You are my pride, Tomoyo," Sonomi said, her voice thick with emotion. "Your grandmother wanted to tell you that the Daidouji women always find their way, no matter how fogged the path is. Here." She handed her a small locket. "It's Nadeshiko's. Well, a copy of the one she loved. Keep it close."
"I will, Mother."
Suddenly, a familiar, grumpy voice interrupted them. "You're late for check-in."
Touya Kinomoto stood there, his arms crossed, with Yukito smiling beside him. Touya didn't say much, but he handed Tomoyo a small, wooden charm from the Tsukimine Shrine.
"It's for protection," Touya grunted, looking away. "London is full of strange things. And that brat Hiiragizawa... if he bothers you, just throw this at him. It's blessed."
Yukito chuckled. "What Touya means is, we wish you the best. Eriol has been waiting for a friend for a long time. Take care of each other."
The final boarding call echoed through the speakers. Tomoyo looked at the faces of the people who made her who she was. She saw Sakura's tearful smile, Syaoran's respectful nod, and her mother's hopeful eyes.
She turned and walked through the gate.
As she settled into her seat on the plane, the engines began to roar. She felt the heavy vibration of the aircraft as it sped down the runway. For a moment, her heart hammered against her ribs—a fear of the unknown. But then, she looked out the window and saw the land of Japan falling away, shrinking into a patchwork of green and blue.
She opened her bag and pulled out a fresh notebook. She didn't take out her camera. She took out a pen. On the first page, she wrote: London, Year One. My own melody begins today.
She thought of Eriol, waiting in the fog on the other side of the world. She thought of the Royal College of Music and the ancient stones of London. She was no longer just a girl with a camera. She was a traveler, a singer, and for the first time, she was truly herself.
The plane soared into the clouds, leaving the shadows of the past behind. Tomoyo closed her eyes, listening to the hum of the engines, and began to hum a soft, new tune to herself.
As the seatbelt sign flickered off, Tomoyo leaned her head against the cool plastic of the window. The vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean stretched out beneath the wings, a deep, endless blue that mirrored the uncertainty in her chest. For the first time in nearly a decade, she was alone. No servants to anticipate her needs, no Sakura to film, no mother to guide her steps.
She opened the small locket her mother had given her. The faces of Nadeshiko and Sonomi looked back at her, frozen in a time when life was simpler. She wondered if her mother had felt this same terrifying spark of freedom when she was young.
Sonomi had always been so strong, but in the airport,Tomoyo had seen a flicker of vulnerability. It was the realization that children are like songs—once they are sung, they belong to the world, not just the singer.
Tomoyo closed her eyes and let her mind drift back to a memory from middle school. It was a rainy afternoon, and she had been sitting in the music room, practicing a difficult aria. Sakura had been waiting outside, holding two umbrellas, listening intently. When Tomoyo finished, Sakura had burst into the room, her eyes sparkling.
"Tomoyo-chan! Your voice is like magic! It makes my heart feel like it's floating!"
At the time, Tomoyo had smiled and thanked her, immediately reaching for her camera to record Sakura's reaction. But now, thousands of feet above the earth, Tomoyo realized something painful. Every time she sang, she had been singing for Sakura. Every note was a gift, a confession, a way to be close to her. She had never once stopped to ask: What does my voice sound like when I sing only for myself?
The thought was frightening. If she removed Sakura from the equation of her life, what was left? She looked at her hands in her lap. They were skilled at sewing, steady at holding a camera, and graceful on a piano. But who was the girl who owned those hands?
She reached into her carry-on bag and pulled out a small, leather-bound journal. It was a gift from Eriol, sent to her months ago when she first mentioned her plan to study in London. The first page was still blank, waiting for a story that hadn't been written by destiny.
She began to write, her pen scratching softly against the paper:
"The air in the cabin is thin, and the world below looks like a toy set. Everyone in Tomoeda thinks I am going to London to study music. And I am. But in truth, I am going to London to meet myself. I am tired of being the narrator of someone else's epic. I want to know what it feels like to be the protagonist of a quiet, ordinary life."
She thought of Eriol Hiiragizawa. He was perhaps the only person who could truly understand this. He had spent lifetimes as Clow Reed, a man whose power was so great it became a prison. Now, he was just a student, a researcher, a man who lived in a foggy city and drank tea.
There was a strange comfort in knowing he was waiting at the other end of this flight. He wouldn't expect her to be a camerawoman or a costume designer. He would just expect her to be Tomoyo.
The flight attendants began to move through the aisles, serving dinner. Tomoyo watched the people around her—a businessman sleeping with his mouth open, a young couple sharing headphones, an elderly woman reading a mystery novel. They were all characters in their own stories, unaware of the magical girl and the legendary sorcerer who had once shaped the fate of the world in a small town in Japan. It was liberating to be a stranger.
As the hours passed and the sun began to rise over the snowy peaks of the Ural Mountains, Tomoyo felt the last bit of tension leave her shoulders. The "Melody of Departure" was no longer a sad song. It was a prelude. It was the tuning of instruments before the grand performance.
She looked at her reflection in the darkened window. Her violet eyes looked tired, but they also looked sharp. She wasn't just Sakura Kinomoto's best friend anymore. She was a woman heading toward a new horizon.
"I'm ready," she whispered to the clouds. "Let the music begin."