The next time Shizuo passes by, the piano does not ring.

He is disappointed. Not at the pianist, not at the lack of new melody, but at himself. If only he'd left the pianist to play in solitude, to be left to his emotions. If only he hadn't tried to barge into his life unwelcome. If only. Shizuo swallows bitter guilt, knowing that he's only succeeded in chasing him away, just like he has everyone else. Of all the things to feel at fault for; hurting innocent people, damaging countless property; surely this is the most disheartening. Who is he to intrude on another's personal life? Who is he, a monster, the feared legend of Ikebukuro, to think that he can reach out to someone like a tortured, brilliant virtuoso? — someone else who doesn't feel accepted? He wants so desperately to stretch out a welcoming hand to the pianist, to feel those delicate fingers on his own, to smile at him and let him know that he isn't alone in the world. But as painful as it is, maybe, somehow, it's comfortable for him. It's all he knows, and he wants it to stay that way.

Who would want a chance to feel loved by one who hardly has the right to be called human?

Shizuo doesn't go to work the next morning. Not able to trust his own voice to sound level enough, he sends a text message to Tom to let him know he's sick, though Tom will probably see past the lame excuse. But Shizuo can't bring himself to care. All his job is, all he's ever supposed to do, is worry about getting owed money back. And Shizuo wonders if the pianist has the same trouble — trying, hoping, to regain love. But how do you take back something you never had?

Only the loud growling of his stomach tells him that he should probably eat something, but he doesn't feel like getting up.

Later that day, he takes a walk down to the building where the pianist used to play. He waits for hours, from afternoon til dusk til evening on into the midnight. Shizuo refuses to fall asleep this time, sitting at the wall, longing for the pianist. But he never comes, and Shizuo forces himself to trudge back to his apartment.

The day after, Shizuo is late to work, but Tom has no jobs for them and sends him back home with a solicitous expression. So Shizuo loiters around the building, occasionally glancing up at the window. His eating breaks are quicker than they've ever been; he doesn't want to miss the pianist for a second if he decides to stop by. But the pianist never shows, and each second that he waits with hope, in vain, chips away at a heart that's been closed off for so long, only to open for it to be shattered.

So he waits the next day

and the next day

and the next day

until something inside Shizuo tells him that the pianist isn't coming back.

He'd hoped. He'd hoped to know him, he'd hoped to show him something he'd never known, to show him that love and acceptance were out there, waiting for him. He'd hoped that maybe, just this once, Shizuo could have shown someone else that love, with the wish that someone would return the favor. To admire beauty, to make connections, to find passion; Shizuo had hoped that, with his music, he could have felt, for once in his life, human. Because no one else deserves to be called a monster, and if he could give that up for someone, maybe he hoped that he'd finally know what it was to love another.

Shizuo Heiwajima, the man no one ever imagined could die, is wilting away, a morning flower slowly giving up the last of its strength to reach for a gracing light that would never come.