Rain hammered Tokyo like accusations. Sora Hayashi, 22, clutched her umbrella like a shield against more than just water. Her fingers—once praised as "gifted"—now trembled at the keys during practice. The academy's grand piano felt like a gravestone for the girl she used to be.
She ducked into the narrow alley to escape the downpour and saw it: "Melodies of the Past." The shop hadn't been there yesterday. Inside, dust motes floated like forgotten regrets. An old man watched her with eyes that knew too much.
Her gaze locked on the music box—cherry blossoms carved into ebony, delicate yet menacing. When she wound it, the melody poured out: fragile, aching, a lullaby for someone already lost. It clawed into her chest, ripping open a wound she didn't remember having.
"Some songs remember what we've buried," the man murmured. "This one... it calls back the dead."
Sora bought it anyway. That night, alone in her dim apartment, she played it again. The notes twisted into a whisper that wasn't wind or imagination.
Don't let him find you... please...
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She clutched the box until her knuckles whitened, tears burning tracks down her cheeks for reasons she couldn't name.