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"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."
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It's never been easy. No, not once — in not but one instance — has he been content to play such devious games. But, after all, not many things about Ikuto's life are easy. No, his life is an upward struggle. A battle. A drain… But this…
This would never get any easier.
"Useless!"
Their cries are piercing and their voices shrill and with every undying, unhappy utterance Ikuto feels his will degrade — feels his resolve withering under the weight of their heart-wrenching wails — because he does not want to be the figure these dreams turn to to die, but it is no use.
He stands amidst the gloomy scene, feels his body turn numb with cold, and still these X-Eggs float lethargically on the breeze — ("Useless! Useless! Useless!") — and Ikuto wonders what might have been. What dreams wither on the wind tonight? What aspirations did these eggs once hold? How bright shone the eyes of the children who gave birth to them?
But it is irrelevant. It is done. It is—
"Useless!"
Their piercing cries rent the night and one by one they disappear, flying off to nowhere and vanishing into the shadows.
Ikuto's too tired to catch them.
Besides, he's surrounded by eggshells enough to last him a lifetime, for though these dreams might dissolve on the breeze and vanish into a thousand, glittering pieces, Ikuto still sees them all around him. He forever sees their dust on his hands; he thinks he hears them in the dead of night; he swears he sees them blocking out the light of the stars as they whizz off overhead…
And then he realises he is mistaken. There are no stars tonight. Nor any night, for that matter, for the sky is veiled in a purple haze.
But on those nights that the stars shine clear — that the heavens open up and bathe this darkened world in purest, gentle light — Ikuto looks up at the sky and can't help but think that they're still out there watching from a world above. He cannot see them, but he hears them. Always he hears them, even as he wanders the night; as he strolls through secret places; even as he stands beneath the inky sky and weaves such music as to be worthy of a place amongst the constellations themselves.
But always it is sad. Always it is heavy — a sorrowful, heart-wrenching tune that blends in with the wail of the dying wishes…
Yet, somehow... Always it is hopeful.
Because perhaps if he plays he might lighten the weight of those X's upon their hearts.
Perhaps if he plays he can lull them to sleep — let his music drift with them on the wind and ease their pain.
Perhaps they might understand his apology and maybe they will hear this heaviness in his heart and know he is repentant...
Perhaps if he plays she will find him.
Perhaps someone will hear his soul singing out into the night and maybe, he thinks — just maybe — that some small weight might finally be lifted from his shoulders, for when he plays nothing truly exists save the strings of his violin and the pouring of his own heart, flowing like a stream through his chest, welling in his fingertips, bursting forth and dancing off into the night on the rise and fall of this musical melody…
And so Ikuto plays.
Ikuto plays beneath the glow of the moon and the light of the stars and he fiddles away 'til his fingers are sore.
Because, he thinks, if he doesn't find some way to lift this burden soon… Perhaps his dream shall wither too.
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