Kaito's Perspective
The supermart's fluorescent lights were familiar, but the purpose was entirely new. Kaito stood before a display of brightly wrapped, generic gifts—teddy bears, scented candles, decorative boxes. They were illogical, impersonal. Aiko nudged him away from the aisle with a sigh.
"No. We are not buying her a glittery unicorn," she said, steering him towards the arts and crafts section. "Think. Hikari."
Kaito was thinking. He had, in fact, been analyzing the gift problem with the same focus he applied to a complex equation. The parameters were clear: it must be meaningful, practical, and acknowledge her core identity without being invasive. The variables were her passion (violin), their shared history (the project), and her personality (aversion to sentimentality).
He stopped walking. His eyes landed on a small, professional display near the fine stationery. Not what he was looking for, but it sparked the final, correct connection. He knew exactly what to get. It required a specialist store, not a supermart.
"I have determined the gift," he stated.
Aiko raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? And?"
"It is not available here. I will procure it separately."
Aiko studied his face—the absolute certainty in his eyes. A slow smile spread across hers. "Okay, Mr. Mysterious. I'll trust you. I'm getting her tickets to that indie strings concert at the city hall next month. Between us, she'll either be thrilled or utterly terrified."
They left the supermart, Aiko with her phone out booking tickets, Kaito with a specific address in his mind, the perfect solution now a quiet mission.
---
Hikari's Perspective
The silence of the Tanaka apartment was heavier than usual. Kenji had gone out on a "secret mission," leaving Hikari alone with her holiday homework and the looming, uncomfortable awareness of her own birthday. She stared at a history essay question, the words blurring. Birthdays had always been low-key—a takeout meal with Kenji, sometimes a call from a parent if their schedules aligned. The idea of people coming over, of Aiko's promised chocolate cake and Kaito's polite presence, sent a low thrum of anxiety through her. It felt like exposure.
She gave up on the essay and picked up her violin. The music that came out was restless, a reflection of her mood—not the stormy catharsis she usually sought, but something searching and uncertain.
---
The Birthday
When the doorbell rang, Hikari's heart jumped. Kenji, already grinning, ushered in Aiko and Kaito. Aiko carried a proudly lopsided chocolate cake she'd baked herself. Kaito held two small, neatly wrapped packages.
The "party" was simple. They sat around the kotatsu. Kenji lit the single candle on the cake. "Make a wish, storm cloud."
Hikari stared at the flame, her mind blank for a second. What did she wish for? The maintenance of this fragile, new normal? She blew the candle out quickly, to scattered, soft applause from Aiko and Kenji. Kaito gave a single, respectful nod.
As they ate cake, the conversation flowed easily, carried by Kenji and Aiko's natural chatter. Then, Aiko, her eyes warm with curiosity, turned to Hikari.
"So, Hikari, what's your story? How does someone so… vividly themselves, end up being the school's mystery?"
Hikari stiffened, her usual defenses rising. But before she could offer a sharp retort or a dismissive shrug, Kenji spoke. His voice was gentle but firm, carrying a brother's protective understanding.
"Our parents," he began, looking from Aiko to Kaito. "They're a surgeon and an international partner at a law firm. Brilliant, dedicated… and never home. Love wasn't the issue. Presence was. Hikari had more freedom than most kids, but she also had more empty rooms. She learned to rely on herself because there often wasn't anyone else to rely on. The violin she found wasn't just a hobby. It was a voice for a house that was too quiet. School became… separate. Unnecessary. Why engage with a world that felt trivial compared to the real, silent weight of that empty space?"
He spoke without pity, stating facts that were simply part of their landscape. Hikari stared at her hands, hearing her own history laid bare with such calm clarity. It didn't sound like a sob story. It just sounded true.
Aiko nodded slowly, her playful expression softening into one of deep respect. "I see," she said quietly. Then she turned her gaze to Kaito, and a different kind of understanding flickered in her eyes. She knew his story, but she let the moment hang, the parallel between their solitudes—one born of betrayal, the other of absence—hanging palpable in the air.
The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was a silence of shared recognition, of walls being seen and understood from the outside.
"Gifts!" Kenji announced, expertly shifting the mood. He presented a beautifully published book of advanced violin études. "To replace that tattered old thing you've been scowling at."
Aiko handed over the concert tickets. "For next month. We're all going. No arguments."
Finally, Kaito placed his small, flat package in front of Hikari. She unwrapped it with careful fingers.
Inside was a single, pristine violin string. Not just any string. It was the exact brand, weight, and type for the E string on her specific violin model—the one that always snapped first under the force of her playing. It was a detail only someone who had watched, listened, and researched with meticulous care would know.
She held it, the coiled metal cool against her skin. It wasn't a grand gesture. It was a whisper. I see your art. I pay attention to its needs. I understand the weight of your silence, and I want to help you keep speaking through this.
She didn't say thank you. Words felt inadequate. She simply looked at him and gave a slow, deep nod, which he returned.
Later, as Aiko and Kaito left, the summer night air warm around them, the bond between the four of them felt different. Stronger. Forged not just in shared lunches and study sessions, but now in shared histories, protectively told and quietly received. They knew each other now, not just as they were, but as they had come to be.
(End of Chapter 25)