The capricious tunes, sometimes flowing unworried like the wind currents and clear like spring water, yet sometimes stumbling like a learner on her first walk, were a welcome addition to the household, Shoukaku reflected. It had been so for some time now. Watching her daughter's small fingers dancing on the ivory keys, even when the notes sounded clumsy and wrong, had never failed to draw a smile. And the eyes that exuded focus and quiet passion—she relished the sight of them even more.

The girl's father must've welcomed his daughter's newfound enthusiasm, for he spared no expense in restoring his family heirloom piano. Now thoroughly dusted and meticulously restored, it sat proudly in that corner of the living room by the window where the afternoon sun could freely go through to bathe it and its player in radiant warmth.

He's always had a passion for music, even though his duties seldom allowed him the leisure to indulge in his interest or permit him to commit to it seriously. The most he had done was play the bugle in his days as an officer when the seas were in turmoil.

But it was this passion that they both shared that, in part, had united them despite their vastly different backgrounds and circumstances. And now, to their joy, their daughter had inherited it—their means of escape from the wearying conflict was now her source of delight.

Shoukaku could recall how that girl, as an infant, would coo and clap to the sound of her flute and cry when it wound down or went silent. Sometimes, she would fall asleep to the sound.

Her first words, too, were still fresh in her mind. It was a wish and a plea.

"Papa, play."

Her second words came shortly after.

"Mama, play."

Her father had been out of practice, so when he blew into his battered bugle, he could only manage a few shaky notes. She laughed and clapped anyway. Shoukaku could've sworn that man was close to tears.

Not that she and her flute were any better at that time. Her hands had begun to feel stiff, and the instrument was old and barely held itself together. What came out sounded off to her, but the girl awarded her the same delighted look and giddy giggles.

She could've sworn she cried then. But she was also smiling so much that, for the first time, her cheeks were hurting. She didn't resent the pain. It was nothing compared to the ache of war.

The girl was so, so happy.

And she was never tired of it.

That piano had been unusable until a few months ago, having long been left to rot—its strings snapped, its keys cracked, and its lacquer faded—waiting for someone to play it again.

When the girl found it and her little fingers pressed what remained of the keys—the notes, broken and disjointed, echoing around the storeroom, Shoukaku could see the twinkle in her eyes, and she knew right away the instrument had found its owner.

Her father was just as ecstatic that he finally had a reason to give it a new life.

Now, it stood polished and gleaming, a centerpiece of their modest home. Twice a week, she would take lessons, but she practiced by herself for the rest of it.

"Mama," she called out but kept playing without missing a beat. "What would you like to hear today?"

"Why don't you play what you want to hear?" Shoukaku answered, sitting beside her on the bench.

The girl thought hard for a moment, then she paused, unusually bashful, but then she flashed a grin.

"What I want to hear...is you playing your flute along with my piano. Can we?"

She had not touched the flute for quite some time, and Shoukaku wasn't sure what sound would come out when she blew into the mouthpiece. But the girl asked, and she wouldn't judge anyway. There was no reason to say no.

"Alright," Shoukaku kissed the girl and left for the cupboard where the instrument lay, beaten and bent, beside the old bugle. Touching it now felt like a reunion with an old friend. Maybe it could play one last song.

"Why are you not getting a new and better one, mama?" her daughter inquired when she returned.

"Well, call it attachment. And besides, there's this saying, 'Even Kobo Daishi doesn't choose his brush.'"

"What does that even mean?" her girl laughed.

"That means the skilled can make do with imperfect materials, dear."

"Ah! Of course! You're really good, mama!"

"Now, now, you flatter me too much," Shoukaku chuckled. She held up the flute and blew into it. The sound, thin and reedy, was good enough, she decided. She could not force it to sound better after so long, after all. "Well, what song should we play?"

"Hmm...I want that one you used to play when you tuck me in."

"Oh? You...remember it?" Shoukaku held the flute closer to her chest, feeling the beat within picking up.

"Always! Sometimes, the music's a little fuzzy in my mind, but still there! And sometimes, I would try playing it on this piano!"

Shoukaku laughed, trying to mask the sob creeping up her throat.

"Very well. Let's do this."

Shoukaku placed her fingers on the flute, the melody flowing through her memory—a soft, nameless tune, something the mother in her had conjured on the spot for her little girl only. To let her know she was loved.

Soon, the piano joined in, the notes simple but enough. The player hummed along, sometimes missing a tune, and Shoukaku adored it all the same. Everything felt easy and certain, like the wind's path above the ocean.

It was short and sweet, and when it had ended, her girl leaned against her, giggling, embracing her tight.

"It sounds even nicer when you're here with me, mama."

"And you did well, too."

"Can we go again?"

"As many times as you like."

"Yes! Yay! I love you, mama."

"And I, you. With all my heart."

She played something else, and Shoukaku tried to follow, even if she had to rely on instinct, and that meant missing a few beats. It didn't matter. They laughed and tried again. And again.

"I'm home," someone announced from the door. They didn't stop playing because his footsteps had grown faster and louder. In no time, he had joined them, laughing when they were done. The girl jumped off the seat and threw her arms around him.

"You're home, papa!"

"And hello there, princess. What were you doing?" he smiled, picking her up and spinning her around.

"Mama and I were playing together, you see—it was so fun!"

"Yep, I heard. That was beautiful."

"It's because Mama is good!"

"And you are good, too," Shoukaku piped in, joining the embrace. "Welcome back."

"Thank you," he said, kissing her, then his daughter. "...I'm so tempted to dust off that old bugle right now."

"Ooooh! Do it, papa, do it! Please!"

Shoukaku wondered what the unusual ensemble would sound like, and she was keen to find out. She wasn't dreading the result.

"Well, if the lady of the house says yes."

"Mhm, why not?"

"Yay! Thank you, Mama! And Papa!"

As their daughter hopped about, excited, Shoukaku and her husband exchanged glances and laughed.

They soon learned the bugle sounded worse than the flute, but it didn't matter. The sound, the cacophony, the laughter—nothing had ever been so wonderful.