The grand concert hall in Tokyo was bathed in golden light, chandeliers sparkling like a thousand captured stars. The audience sat in hushed reverence, programs folded in laps, breaths held.
On stage, beneath a single spotlight, sat Kaito Nakamura.
He was twenty-seven now, but the years had only sharpened him black hair falling just enough to shadow storm-gray eyes, fingers long and scarred resting on ivory keys. His black suit was impeccable, posture perfect, face unreadable.
The program read: Unspoken Summer – Original Composition by Kaito Nakamura.
He began to play.
The first notes drifted through the hall like summer rain on a quiet sea soft, nostalgic, aching. The melody built slowly, weaving memories of festival lanterns, salty ocean air, stolen kisses under fireworks.
In the VIP balcony, Haruka Aizawa froze.
She knew this melody.
He had written it for her.
Eight years ago, on a cliff overlooking the Tohoku coast, he had played it on a battered upright piano in the old music room, whispering, "This is our summer. This is us."
Her hand trembled on the railing. The program slipped from her fingers.
Haruka was twenty-six now a pediatric cardiac surgeon, one of the best in Japan. Her chestnut hair was pulled into a neat braid, white coat swapped for an elegant navy dress. But inside, she was still the seventeen-year-old girl waiting at a train station in the rain.
The music swelled heartbreaking, beautiful. The audience was crying. Haruka couldn't breathe.
Kaito's fingers danced faster, the melody turning desperate, unresolved. Like a promise broken. Like a goodbye never said.
Then the final note.
Silence.
A beat.
Then thunderous applause.
Kaito stood, bowed stiffly, face still blank. He had played flawlessly. As always.
But for the first time in eight years, his hands shook as he left the stage.
Backstage was chaos managers, sponsors, flowers. Kaito slipped through a side door, needing air.
He found himself in a quiet corridor overlooking the hospital wing the gala was funding.
And there she was.
Haruka stood by the glass wall, staring at the children's ward below. Her back was to him, but he knew the curve of her shoulders, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when nervous.
He stopped breathing.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
The world narrowed to just them.
"Haruka…" His voice was barely a whisper.
She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just looked at him like he was a ghost.
Eight years of silence filled the space between them.
"You kept the melody," she finally said, voice steady but eyes wet.
"You kept waiting," he answered, stepping closer.
"I stopped waiting the night you never came back."
He flinched like she'd struck him.
"I couldn't" he started.
"Don't." She held up a hand. "Not here. Not now."
A nurse rushed up. "Dr. Aizawa! Emergency seven-year-old boy, arrhythmia escalating. We need you in surgery now."
Haruka nodded, already moving. Professional mask sliding into place.
Kaito followed instinct, fate, something.
They entered the observation room overlooking the OR.
On the table: a small boy, dark hair, gray eyes. Pale, but smiling bravely at the nurses.
Haruka's hand pressed against the glass.
Kaito's world tilted.
The boy's chart: Birthdate exactly nine months after that summer.
The name on the bracelet: Sora.
Meaning sky.
The melody Kaito wrote had a hidden dedication: For the sky we'll see together.
Haruka's voice was barely audible: "He's… ours."
Kaito's knees nearly buckled.
The boy looked up through the glass as if sensing them.
And smiled.