The applause from the previous performer fades as Shion steps onto the stage again, this time alone. The concert hall seems to shift with him, the atmosphere tightening like a held breath. I sit stiff in my chair, arms folded, trying to disguise the pounding of my heart.

His presence isn’t loud, isn’t boastful. He simply walks to the piano, bows, and sits. The lights above dim slightly, leaving only him illuminated—a spotlight sharpening his edges, drawing every gaze.

But when he lifts his hands to the keys, I swear he looks at me. Just for a second.

And then he begins.

The first notes are soft. Barely there, like the faintest brush of color on a canvas. A single line of melody unfurls, tentative yet sure, like morning light seeping through a half-open curtain.

I close my eyes for a moment—not because I want to, but because I can’t help it. The music pulls at me, tugging me away from the walls I’ve built.

When I open them again, the piano is no longer just sound. It’s image. The notes ripple into shades of blue, shifting into golds, bleeding into reds. I almost laugh at the absurdity—me, an artist, seeing paintings in music—but the images are undeniable.

The melody grows, weaving into layers. Not just color now, but shapes. Vast skies. An ocean stretching endlessly. A hand reaching out of the darkness.

My throat tightens.

What is he doing to me?

Halfway through, I make a decision I don’t fully understand. I lift a hand and cover my good eye.

The hall dims instantly. The blur of my bad eye leaves me in shadows, the stage barely more than a smudge of light and movement. My pulse spikes in my ears, louder than the murmur of shuffling seats around me.

This… this is what it could be like. Soon.

Blindness.

I grip the edge of my seat, forcing myself not to uncover my eye, not to retreat. Instead, I let the music pour in.

And then something happens.

In the absence of sight, the sound grows sharper. Every note swells larger than life, vibrating through my ribs. The low chords feel like the earth itself shifting under me, while the high notes shimmer like stars flickering into being.

And inside me—where the fear usually festers—images bloom.

A field of flowers swaying under a wind I can’t feel. A sky fractured with color I can’t name. And always, threaded through, a warmth. A presence. Something steady and unyielding.

It’s not emptiness. It’s… something else.

I don’t notice the tears until they fall, sliding hot down my cheeks.

The final note rings out, long and trembling, like a breath held too long before release. Then silence.

For a heartbeat, the hall remains still. Then applause bursts like a wave, rolling across the room. Students rise to their feet, cheering, clapping, whistling.

But I can’t move. My hand drops from my eye, my vision rushing back in—but blurred by tears. I swipe at them quickly, furious that anyone might see.

When I glance up, Shion is standing, bowing. But his eyes… his eyes are on me. Not the crowd, not the professors in the front row, not the classmates clapping loudest.

Me.

His gaze softens, just barely, the faintest curve of his lips betraying something gentle. He saw. He knows.

Heat rushes up my neck. I look away, staring hard at the floor until the applause finally fades.

---

The recital ends with a group piece, but I barely register it. My mind is still drowning in Shion’s notes, in the fragments of images they etched into my skull. My chest aches with something I don’t want to name.

When the final bows are taken and the crowd begins to shuffle out, I remain seated, waiting for the press of bodies to thin. I can’t face him—not with my face still flushed and my eyes still red.

But fate has other plans.

“Kaoru.”

His voice, close. Too close.

I flinch, looking up to find him standing by the end of my row, still in his performance attire, hair loose around his face. He looks more tired now, sweat glistening at his temple, but his gaze hasn’t dimmed.

I scramble for words, but nothing comes.

He tilts his head slightly, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Did you see it?”

The question catches me off guard. “See what?”

“The world,” he says softly. “The one in the music.”

My chest twists. He knows. Somehow, he knows what I did, what I felt.

I swallow hard, forcing my voice steady. “You’re… ridiculous.”

Shion laughs quietly, but it isn’t mocking. It’s warm, like he’s grateful I said anything at all.

“Maybe,” he concedes. Then, after a pause: “But thank you for coming.”

Before I can respond, Aoi appears at the aisle, waving. “Kaoru! You didn’t tell me you’d be here.” His eyes dart between me and Shion, and his grin turns sly. “Ohhh. I see.”

“You don’t see anything,” I snap, pushing past him.

But Shion’s quiet chuckle follows me into the night, and it clings to me like the fading echo of his music.