The secluded mansion provided a welcome relief from the hounding press. Shuhei collapsed onto the antique bed and drew an arm across his eyes. He was too exhausted even to cry. "I'm sorry" was all he said.
"You can rest here. They'll forget you soon enough," his father replied gruffly. Shuhei heard what he didn't say: neither it's okay nor you'll get through this. They both understood he was facing an obstacle that might be insurmountable: A robotically-perfect, unfeeling, unmusical performance, the reviews had gleefully decried. The judges had been more tactful, politely praising his technical mastery while encouraging him to explore artistic growth. They had awarded him second prize.
There had been no first prize. Shuhei stood before the whispering audience, next to a blank spot on the podium, waiting for a performer who didn't exist.
- O -
For the first few weeks, his father and mother kept him company. The days he spent meandering through the mansion's lands, over hills and through dappled woods. The evenings he sat idly skimming dusty tomes from the mansion's dusty library. He stayed clear of the imposing piano, an antique Erard with S. AJINO engraved in faded gold, a single worn notebook sitting on its stand.
Soon, Yoichiro resumed his touring performances, and Namie returned to tend to their home in Japan. Unprepared to weather another barrage of interviews - he'd winced at the reporter asking "Is your career over before it's begun?" - Shuhei decided to remain at the mansion.
The first night, he dreamt of a cheerful tune emanating from the old piano. With difficulty, he recalled the song's name. Little Brown Jug, but embellished into a kaleidoscope of variations, first playful, then wistful, then grand, all beautiful. Shuhei felt himself swept floating through a starlit forest, dense green leaves rustling around him and silver stars shining overhead. Feeling at peace for the first time since the competition, he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.
In the morning, he sat curiously at the ornate piano bench and inspected the piano. It was not a player piano as he had guessed. He noticed for the first time the patterns and swirls carved into the wood, so unlike the plain, sleek black of the modern concert hall, almost invisible from a distance against the dark, dull brown of the piano. Shuhei traced the outline of a leaf with his finger.
He took a deep breath and pressed a cracked key. The mallet thudded against the piano's insides. Broken. It must have been a dream.
"Of course it was a dream," he spoke aloud to the silent room. "Even if the piano were working, I'm the only one here." Shuhei shook his head at himself, but nonetheless he continued narrating to his invisible audience. "It's only the second day, and I'm already talking to myself. I might be losing my mind." He thought for a moment. "It might be an improvement."
Next, he picked up the notebook, turning it over in his hands. He opened it, wondering if it contained any sheet music.
The book was empty, save for a child's messy scrawl on the inside cover. Kai Ichinose.
In a moment of whimsy, Shuhei picked up a pen. He hesitated, then decided writing to "Kai" wasn't far off from talking to the house. Hello Kai-kun, he wrote. My name is Shuhei Amamiya.
- O -
That night, he dreamed of piano music again.
The next morning, a reply in the notebook awaited him in the neat, clear script of an older student.
Greetings, Shuhei Amamiya-san! I see you've found my old notebook. When did you come to write in it? I didn't see you yesterday. Nonetheless, pleased to make your acquaintance! Stay for a while and chat next time you visit. Sincerely, Kai.
Shuhei stared at it for a whole minute. Then he jumped up and ran to every door and window. They were all shut. The locks were all in place. Panicked, he grabbed for his phone and dialed his father's number.
Only muffled sounds came through the other end, punctuated by keys clinking in a pocket. Shuhei reached to hang up, when his father's voice floated distantly through the speaker. "What an embarrassment," Yoichiro said.
Shuhei froze.
"Yes. Now I can barely go onstage myself. His international debut too."
Shuhei hung up, blinking furiously, fighting to hold back the tears that spilled from his eyes, down his face, and onto the yellowed pages of the notebook. He slammed his fists down on the faded piano keys, and then his forehead, listening to twenty hammers thudding against the aged wood. When his father called back, apologizing for the missed call, he made small talk through gritted teeth. He was too numb to be afraid. He didn't mention the mysterious intruder or the notebook.
- O -
Dear Kai-kun, I was here all day. I live here. When did you write in the notebook? Did you break in during the night? Do you secretly live in this house?
Shuhei hesitated on the next part, but it was true, so he wrote it: I won't give away your secret. You don't have to hide.
He camped on the living room couch for the night with a blanket, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious intruder, but soon drifted off to sleep. The next morning, a scrawled, indignant letter was waiting in the notebook.
Amamiya-san, what are you talking about? I'm not hiding any secrets. I live here, and Arisa told me she didn't see any strangers all day, and no one came near this piano or book. How are you getting in here?
Shuhei frowned, reading the puzzling note. Slowly, he wrote back a confused reply. Like I said, I live here. I wake up in an empty house with this book on my piano. I will be here writing tomorrow night at 9 o'clock, and for the next few nights. Come and find me then. Best, S. Amamiya.
I'll be waiting. Sincerely, Kai.
That night, Shuhei sat before the open notebook, waiting. The doors were locked, and the house was deathly silent. In contrast, the notebook seemed to hum with energy. The clock read 9:01, then 9:02. Shuhei was alone. It seemed no one was coming. He turned to a new page with tingling fingertips and began to write.
Hello, Kai-kun. Here I am. Where are you?
He paused to chuckle depreciatively at himself, when words blossomed onto the page beneath his own hand. He screamed and toppled backwards off the bench. Amamiya-san, I'm right here! Your words are writing themselves onto the page of their own accord. Are you a ghost?
Shuhei grabbed the pen and hurriedly wrote back. Your words are appearing as if written by a disembodied hand too! I feel like I'm on an episode of the Twilight Zone!
Heh, where's the twilight zone? This could be the plot of a Mozart opera.
Kai-kun, you know Mozart? I played some of his piano works. The Twilight Zone is a famous TV show. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it.
You're a Mozart fan too? That's amazing, Amamiya-san! My favorite is the Piano Sonata no. 2. What's a TV show?
TV? Television?
Never heard of it.
Shuhei paused, trying to shake the disquiet tugging at the edges of his thoughts. Not one for keeping up with technology, Kai-kun?
The reply was immediate. I'm always interested in new inventions! I learned Morse Code, and that just came out a few years ago. And I'm here writing to a spooky ghost through my notebook.
The uneasy feeling in his stomach was growing into a pit. Kai-kun. What year is it? I'm being completely serious. Please answer me.
Each digit seemed to take an hour to appear on the page. Shuhei inhaled sharply.
1850.
- O -
Kai was not convinced of Shuhei's story. Tales like that will get you sent to a sanatorium, he warned. Maybe you had a weird dream.
I'll tell you all about 2015, Shuhei wrote in frustration. My family owns this mansion. My great-great-grandfather bought it in 1935, and it's been in the family since. Feeling bold, he doodled a small cartoon of himself with his father and mother.
My mom and eight other women live here, Kai countered. He paused a moment before continuing defiantly. She's a courtesan, and this is the Morinohata brothel. I help with the cleaning and chores, and I play piano for our shows. This was followed by a doodle of Kai and his mother, both with matching long, wild hair and bright smiles. Your drawing is great! You're so cute! He added.
Shuhei stared, at a loss for words. That must be the music I hear every night. It's your shows, he finally wrote. It sounds like a hard life, he added.
Yeah. You can hear me play?
Yes, since two nights ago. Maybe only when I'm alone in the house.
That's so cool! Can I hear you play, Amamiya-san?
Maybe one day. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the piano's broken in my time.
Oh. That's a bummer.
Shuhei thought carefully about his next question. Does she want to do something different?
Even without voice and tone, Kai's reply was somber. She gets drunk and talks about leaving, but it's just words. We both know she's never getting out of Morinohata.
What about you? What do you want to do?
Well. . . the words came haltingly, shyly. I love playing the piano. I wish I could learn it properly and take some lessons. I also really admire the great composers: Mozart, Beethoven, and Chopin. Maybe I could be a composer too.
Kai-kun. . . Shuhei smiled at the earnest confession.
More words were pouring out in a rush. But I can't take lessons as the child of a courtesan. The Madam would never allow it. The first time I wrote some songs, she threw them away and tied me to a tree all night. Now I hide my songs under the floorboards.
Kai-kun, that's awful! Can't you get away and start a new life somewhere else? You could get a music teacher. I heard you play. Any teacher would be glad to teach you.
Who would teach the child of a courtesan? Besides, Mother needs me. I can't leave her.
Shuhei's hands clenched into fists. He barely knew this stranger, but to be trapped as a brothel worker all his life! It wasn't right. Little Brown Jug floated to his mind, Kai's evocative performance bordering on magical. I'll teach you, he wrote on an impulse. I'm a piano student training to be a professional pianist. And even if you stay in Morinohata all your life, your talent is too great to be buried.
You'll teach me? I can't wait! Thank you, Amamiya-san! Cartoon-Kai's eyes seemed to sparkle from the page.
Shuhei smiled back at the drawing. We'll begin with scales. He reached out to play a scale, only to hear a hollow thump. A second thump followed as Shuhei dropped his head against the wood. Sorry, I forgot that the piano is broken in 2015. Wait for me, okay? I'll get it repaired.
- O -
On a sunny weekend in March, Namie came to visit and found Shuhei in overalls, hair slicked with sweat, hands stained to the elbows in wood finish. "I'm repairing the Erard," he explained. "Just to hear what it sounds like."
"That's. . . nice. And unusual," she replied, bewildered. "Your father couldn't make it this weekend, but he sends his love and will see you soon," she continued.
Shuhei kept his face composed. "I understand. Father must be very busy. I look forward to seeing him next week," he said blandly.
It was partially true: father was busy. Busy with a packed schedule of his own choosing. We're not so different, Shuhei mused, after his mother returned to Tokyo. Father busies himself with concerts, and I busy myself with the Erard, and neither of us has to face our problems: me and my disappointing piano.
He dismissed the thought and got back to staining the disassembled wood piece by piece. The original wooden plate had warped beyond repair, and the strings hung frayed and loose. Shuhei placed a call to a piano maker, a stern but kind woman named Christina, and commissioned a new cast-iron plate to fit the piano. He polished the wood to a gleaming shine and carefully reassembled the piano with Christina's help.
At the end of April, the newly-refinished piano stood gleaming in the corner, its harp strung with resonant copper strings, the wood shining a rich mahogany. "Wow," Shuhei breathed. He couldn't stop staring at it.
"Yes," echoed Christina. "A beautiful instrument with a rich history. It's an honor to have worked on it."
Shuhei couldn't stop stroking the glossy cover. He gently touched the bright, clean keys. He meant to play something grand and momentous, something deserving of the ancient instrument, but instead Twinkle Twinkle Little Star came flowing from his fingerstips. It sounded just right on that instrument, cheerful and pure, and Shuhei felt, inexplicably, that the piano was guiding him.
He repeated the songlike theme, then continued into Mozart's Twelve Variations on the theme, some of them playful, some wistful, some grand, all beautiful. As he played, a reluctant smile spread across his face, and he gradually lost his caution, until he was swaying freely, fingers flying across the keys, and the piano rang with all the sound he could pull from it.
Christina was smiling at him with star-bright eyes. "I've only seen it twice before in my life. You can hear when a piano finds its person."
Kai, too, seemed to be smiling. I heard your piano, he wrote that night, the letters running together in excitement. Your music made me so happy! These sparkling, transparent fragments of sound are beyond what you can get from just hard work. I hope you'll play often.
- O -
Shuhei did play often, after that day. He started with old, familiar pieces from his childhood. As spring became summer, he began studying pieces that he'd admired but never had the occasion to learn. He played for hours in the evenings with Kai, taking a turn at the piano while Kai filled the notebook with enthusiastic encouragement. Then, Kai practiced while Shuhei listened and wrote pointers on technique.
Kai improved rapidly, and could soon play the most intricate and challenging pieces. He played with clean technique, profound lyricism, and passionate flair. Shuhei was quickly realizing that Kai's talent and musicality far eclipsed his own. Before long, Kai had become the teacher, giving Shuhei suggestions on interpretation and phrasing.
Yoichiro visited the mansion in the summer, arriving in a chorus of cicadas as the sun was setting. The breeze wafted in through the open window, and the singing tones of the Erard floated out. Yoichiro listened ecstatically to the expressive, lyrical performance, then threw open the door.
"Shuhei, my son!" He called joyfully. "You've found your sound! Alone in this remote mansion, you've grown as a pianist. . . as a musician. . . as an artist!"
"I'm only-" only copying how Kai plays it, Shuhei began to say, but caught the glowing expression on his father's face.
The moment passed, and then it was too late. His father called Pavlas, his teacher, and eagerly proclaimed him ready to resume lessons. Shuhei slipped back into his polite, reserved persona, taking careful notes at his lessons and returning to the mansion to work through them with Kai.
"I'm very impressed with your progress," Pavlas told Shuhei. "Each week, although you struggle to show noticeable progress during the lesson, you're much improved by the next. You must have a good practice system at home. I would like to enter you in the International Chopin Competition."
"That. . . I missed the preliminary round in April," Shuhei heard himself saying. He was breathless and dizzy.
"As the second prize winner of the Tokyo International Competition, you are entitled to bypass the preliminary round," Pavlas explained.
The Tokyo International Competition. A robotically-perfect, unfeeling, unmusical performance. Shuhei suppressed a shudder.
"We dreamed of the day you'd hold Shuhei in such esteem," his father filled in. "He is greatly honored for the opportunity."
"Good." Pavlas handed Shuhei a printed page. "Here are the pieces I recommend for your programs. The competition is in October. You have 3 months to prepare. It's not much time, but I've chosen pieces you are already familiar with. Please look over it and let me know if you have any concerns."
Shuhei returned home and began to practice, struggling mightily to bring the pieces to life, especially the gently-swaying Mazurkas. Kai was the only person he told of his consternation - sweet, affectionate Kai who learned the repertoire right along with him, miraculously-talented Kai who was overjoyed to have new pieces to work on. Kai instantly understood Pavlas's instructions that confounded Shuhei at lessons. Like this! He wrote in the notebook, and a second later, his sound would erupt from the piano, familiar yet striking in its harmonic details and rhythmic emphasis, piercing Shuhei as if he was hearing the piece for the first time all over again.
Like diamonds, Shuhei thought wonderingly. Like Kai's cut through the coarse rock of my music, revealing the shining soul of it that I could never find.
- O -
The day that Shuhei won the International Chopin Competition should have been the happiest day of his life. He stood at center stage, shook hands with the judges, and posed for photos. His mother dabbed at her eyes, and his father beamed proudly. The press loudly proclaimed his growth as a musician and the triumphant launch of his career. A musical and artistic genius, they lauded him.
Shuhei kept his composure until he was back at the mansion, alone, then flung his trophy against the wall. "I'm no genius!" He screamed at the mansion. "I'm a fraud!" He crumpled to his knees, shaking. "Kai's the one everyone wants to hear. His is the sound that won the competition." He raised his head to throw his bowtie when his eye caught on the notebook.
How was the competition? Kai's message asked innocently.
Congratulations, Shuhei wrote bitterly. You won. The judges loved your sound. And I'm just the same loser I've always been.
What? Kai wrote back in jagged, urgent letters. No, it's your victory. You worked really hard for this, and your playing is beautiful.
Shuhei lost his temper. It's only beautiful because I was copying you! All I can do is copy your sound. And to be honest? I resent it. You make my father proud, and I disappoint him. You play winning music, and I simply repeat it for the judges. Well, I don't need your pity.
Amamiya-
Shuhei kept writing, his pen digging harshly into the paper. Every day you remind me of everything I'm not. My father wishes I could be you, and it tears me apart. I wish I didn't have to see what I'm missing.
Amamiya! I-
I hate you. I wish I'd never met you.
Shuhei closed the notebook with a snap. He stormed out of the mansion and didn't look back, wandering wildly over the hills and into the forest with the wind whipping around him. He stormed for hours with the tempest whirling inside his head, until past midnight when he fell asleep exhausted against a tree trunk with the silver moon high above.
- O -
In the morning, he awoke stiff but calm. A cool breeze stirred his hair, and morning birds chirped overhead. Shuhei opened his eyes to dappled rays dancing through viridian leaves, the glowing light seeming inexplicably like Kai's gentle touch. Shuhei sat warming himself in the golden rays, the beautiful forest draining the bitterness drained away from him.
"I was wrong," he said to the serene forest. "Kai inspired me from the bottom of my heart. I cursed having met Kai, but in reality, the fact that I learned to love the sound of the piano is because of Kai."
He ran back to the house and opened the notebook. Kai-kun! I'm so sorry. I don't hate you. I should never have said those horrible things to you. The truth is, you inspired me and taught me to love the piano. Please forgive me and play music with me again.
There was no response from the notebook, that day or the next. For three days, Shuhei played Kai's favorite pieces, offering them as his apology, and waited anxiously with dwindling hope.
On the third night, Shuhei played through his entire repertoire from the International Chopin competition, beginning with his preliminary round program and ending with the Concerto in e minor he'd played in the finals. His hands moved automatically across the keys, as he remembered all the times Kai had practiced with him, taking the orchestra's part on the Concerto while Shuhei played the solo. He entered the third movement with his ears filling in Kai's quiet accompaniment, sounding almost real.
Suddenly, he realized it was real.
He abruptly stopped playing, snatching up the notebook and flipping it open. Amamiya, I'm here! I forgive you! It's ok!
Kai! He wrote back, weak with relief, and then, unable to find the words, he wrote his name again: Kai.
I didn't mean to leave you like that, Kai's writing continued. I'm so sorry! I've been ill.
I'm so glad you're back! Shuhei wrote. Sorry that you're feeling bad. Are you doing better?
Well, kind of, Kai replied. He abruptly changed the subject. Will you play Fantasia in f minor with me again?
Shuhei smiled. Schubert's Fantasia in f minor was one of Kai's favorites. They played it so often that Shuhei knew it from memory. He knew the exact timing of Kai's rubatos, had memorized every subtlety of his dynamic shaping. They played it perfectly in synch, as if they were one person despite their century of separation. Then, for the first time, Kai began to write about the piece's history.
Schubert wrote the Fantasia in the last year of his life, after years of failing health. The haunting first theme, played in full and then repeated in shortened form, represents Death closing in on him. At the end of the piece, the smoldering cadence fading away to ashes and dust - that is Schubert's death, immortalized in music form.
Icy terror flooded his veins and locked him in place, squeezing his lungs in an iron grasp. It was like he had forgotten how to breathe. Terribly, Shuhei knew what Kai would say, felt the blow in his gut a second before the words appeared in stark, undeniable ink.
The Fantasia speaks to my heart, for I am hunted too. Some days, the consumption is worse than others.
- O -
Consumption, known in the modern world as Tuberculosis.
For Shuhei, their nightly music sessions were filled with a new urgency, something beautiful and sacred that was fast slipping away. He listened desperately to Kai's sound, drinking it in like water on hot desert sand. Other nights, Kai would write that he was weary, and Shuhei would play him music from the future, beautiful works by Brahms and Debussy, or tricky and intricate pieces that he just knew Kai would love to learn. He spent a full day writing out all of La Campanella into the notebook, and was rewarded with a front-row week of listening to Kai practice it.
In November, Kai's sound began to falter. His fingering grew uneven, his tempo slowed, and the bells of his La Campanella ceased to ring.
Kai-kun. Kai. What's happening to you? Shuhei wrote desperately.
I'm just tired, that's all, Kai wrote back in shaky handwriting. The consumption is flaring. It's done that before. I'll be better soon.
But as the weeks passed, his sound continued to grow muddier. He began to play his parts one-handed, and then one terrible day, not at all.
Don't push yourself, Shuhei wrote to Kai. Rest. Tomorrow will be better.
But a few minutes later, the thin, uneven notes resumed, the repeated C of Fantasia in f minor sounding the haunted, urgent rhythm. Softly, Shuhei began to play along, gentle as the snowflakes fluttering against the gray sky. He willed his gentle accompaniment to reach through time and hold Kai up, and somehow give him strength. His vision suddenly blurred, and a stream of tears slipped down his face. Then a few bars in, Kai pressed a wrong note and stuttered to a stop.
The seconds passed. The halting rhythm began again, but died away even more quickly than before. Then, Kai apologized in faint letters. I'm sorry. Thank you for giving me the gift of your music, for the chance to unearth my passion from beneath the floorboards. I'm sorry that I can't play with you anymore.
Please get better. Please. Oh god, Kai. . . . The pen tore a jagged gash across the page, and hot tears splashed down on the page. Shuhei squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, crushing the paper between his fingers.
When he opened his eyes, words were slowly, laboriously crawling across the page again. Don't be sad, Amamiya. I'm so glad I met you. I lived, and I loved, and I made music. I got to reach into the future to somebody I did not know, and you gave me music that I would never have heard.
Kai, no, you're not dying. Just hold on. Please.
I'm sorry. I tried hard, I really did. I'm sorry. Amamiya, please play something for me. Your music is my favorite sound in the world.
I'll play you anything you want. Today, tomorrow, and every day after that.
Do not forget about me, please.
I will NEVER forget you.
Shuhei launched straight into Chopin's stormy Prelude in d minor, one of Kai's signature pieces. The notes climbed wailing into the upper registers, a turbulent maelstrom, before crashing down in a thunderous flood. Shuhei balled his fist and slammed it into the last note, the piano screaming out his helpless rage and despair. He bent gasping for breath over the keyboard. The page was still, and Shuhei thought Kai might have fallen asleep, or worse - no, not worse - when a last, shaky line appeared in a wavering hand.
Thank you. Good-bye.
Shuhei let his head fall onto the notebook and sobbed, flooding the pages. Moments flashed through his mind: Kai's notes filling the silent house like crystal bells, his bright optimism emanating courage, giving Shuhei the strength to face the piano and the future with resolve, the warmth of the first time they played a duet, their tones merging sweetly together. In a dizzying rush, he realized what he'd meant to say, why his words felt so inadequate. He reached for his pen and a new page.
I love you.
He waited with tears trickling down his face, playing through piece after piece for hours until he fell asleep at the bench. But Kai never wrote back.
- O -
The new year held no joy. The days passed gray and bleak and all alike. Shuhei played the piano every day and wrote in the notebook every night, hoping to call Kai back to him one last time. The otherworldly piano remained silent, and the pages remained empty.
"You've changed," his mother remarked. "What happened?"
"I'm just tired. Maybe it's the cold or the short days," Shuhei summoned a polite smile and made his excuse.
"You've also missed every lesson since the new year," his father prodded. "This is very unusual for you. You used to beg to be allowed to take lessons when you were sick."
Shuhei nodded, too weary to argue or explain. He didn't meet their eyes, unable to face their concern.
After a long moment of silence, his mother continued. "Shuhei, you can always turn to us when you are in need."
He couldn't tell them about Kai. He couldn't say his name, lest the feelings spill out and never end, and he'd never stop crying. But there was something he could ask.
"Father? Mother? Would you still love me if I hadn't won the Chopin competition?"
"Shuhei! Of course we would. We love you no matter what!" His mother exclaimed.
"If I were truly robotically, unfeelingly unmusical?"
"Shuhei, you proved you are very musical-" his father began to say. Shuhei looked away, eyes downcast, and Namie shot Yoichiro a furious glare. "-But of course we will always love you," he hastily finished.
His throat was aching, and he thought he might cry anyway. His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Would you be proud to know me?"
"Yes," his father answered with a tiny fraction of a second's hesitation, just a split second too slow. His mother winced. Shuhei nodded.
"Shuhei, your father meant- Of course he's proud of you." The words sounded hollow even to her own ears.
"It's okay, mother. It's kind of him to try. To be honest, it doesn't hurt as much as I remember." Shuhei's gaze flicked to the Erard.
Later, his mother and father would discuss his expression at he glanced at the piano, the supposed source of his struggles.
Later, Shuhei would hold the crumpled notebook against his chest, pressing to keep his heart in one piece. His father's disappointment would never again wound him, not after the pain of losing Kai.
- O -
The days grew longer, and the snow melted. A year to the day from when he first heard Kai, Shuhei wandered from room to room through the mansion and found himself in the office. Overflowing books and folders filled the bookshelves, reams of accounting notes and supply orders. Further back were notes from his great-grandfather's time describing extensive renovations. Then came the deeds and legal documents from 1935, when Yusuke Amamiya had purchased the mansion from a Morinohata brothel decimated by the Great Depression.
Shuhei read on, into the records of Morinohata's daily dealings. He skimmed through lists of customers and transactions, pausing to read notes and anecdotes that the madam had written in the margins. With increasing foreboding, he read on towards 1850.
Dec 31, 1850. Buried Reiko's child by the willow tree.
The folder slipped from nerveless fingers. Kai. Shuhei ran outside and into the forest, stopping only to grab the notebook from the piano. He ran all the way to the clearing where the only weeping willow in the forest grew. There, partially buried in dirt, was the shape of a sun, small rocks surrounding a flat slab the width of his two hands, its rough surface worn smooth by a century of wind and rain. He fell to his knees on the half-frozen ground, reaching out to lay his palm against the slab. Kneeling in the frozen dirt, he began to read all their letters, beginning from the very first page.
Greetings, Shuhei Amamiya-san!
He read on and on, not noticing the cold that seeped through his thin shirt and into his body and dulled his senses.
I love playing the piano. I wish I could learn it properly and take some lessons.
With each line, Kai's words came back to him, echoing in his ear as though Kai were speaking them out loud.
Your music made me so happy! These sparkling, transparent fragments of sound are beyond what you can get from just hard work.
By the time the notebook fell from his numbed grasp, he was drowsy with cold. Night was falling. Shuhei curled up inside the circle of the sun with the notebook clutched to his heart. As he drifted into darkness, he thought he heard Kai's voice.
I'll be waiting. Sincerely, Kai.
- O -
Shuhei blinked awake in the sunlight. He reached for his glasses. His hand bumped against stone.
He jerked upright and looked around. Am I dead? He remembered lying against the slab as the last of his body heat leeched into the ground. But he was perfectly warm now. Even as he took stock of his surroundings, he could feel the cold chill creeping in again. He reached down to pick up the notebook where it lay open on the ground.
Maybe I could be a composer too.
Something tugged at Shuhei's mind. He stood still, shivering, pulling the threads of memory forth.
Now I hide my songs under the floorboards.
Thank you for the chance to unearth my passion from beneath the floorboards.
He turned and sprinted back to the mansion. There were floorboards everywhere. Where would he put it? It had to be by the piano. He crawled under the piano and ran his hands over the planks, searching for any hint or sign. Just behind the piano, in the shadow of its back leg, he felt a small dent in the smooth wood: a roughly-carved sun. He gingerly pried up the plank and lifted it out.
A cloud of dust settled over the hole. Shuhei reached in and reverently lifted out a thick book, yellow pages filled with endless rows of sheet music in Kai's neat handwriting. He turned to the first page and began to play.
Waves of music poured through him and stole his breath away. It was Kai's sound. Kai's golden hands seemed to cover his own on the keyboard, holding and guiding his fingers into place. Is this your presence, or is it simply the power of your music? He played on, through aching melodies and startling harmonies, now playful, now wistful, now grand, always beautiful. Kai-kun, is my music reaching your heart? He played on until he reached the last note, the echo of the final chord still ringing in the air.
The last page was nearly empty save for two short lines, a closing inscription. In a firm, clear hand: I was here, once. And beneath that, trembling but determined:
I love you.
- O -
"The next performer is Shuhei Amamiya, who will be performing selections from the works by newly-discovered composer, Kai Ichinose."
Shuhei stood before the sleek, modern Steinway, barely noticing the hush falling over the crowd. He had only one person in the audience of his mind. His eyes skimmed over the sea of faces, to a spot on the balcony where he imagined Kai would be standing. Waiting.
I was here, once. Do not forget about me, please.
He bowed to the imagined, ghostly figure, pushed back his suit jacket, and sat at the piano.
I will make the world remember you, Kai Ichinose. I promise you.
He began to play.
- END -
Author's notes:
No one:
Absolutely no one:
Me: How about some Tuberculosis and Major Character Death :)
- O -
This story was based on a poem by tumblr user somecunttookmyurl's poem: https colon slash slash somecunttookmyurl dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 655540108656803840 (see this same work on AO3 under Gheyn for an actual link).
Sorry, I couldn't figure out how to get Kai out of the past. I really wanted them to meet and live happily ever after, but couldn't figure out how. For one thing, he'd never leave his mother. For another, the poem is about living and dying and leaving something behind and being remembered. So Kai had to be a significant distance in the past. I thought about putting him a mere two years in the past, like in The Lake House, but that lost the poem's message.
For the record, Shuhei did not freeze to death in the forest, and subsequent scenes are not a dying hallucination. He was saved by an unspecified mysterious force. :)