Episode 21 — Young Adult

Shortly after, a security guard came rushing over and Kanzaki-san was taken away. With the curious stares of those around us pressing in from all sides, Kanzaki-san remained perfectly composed, waving lightly at me — and then told me something, in a voice so small it reached only my ears.

“See you tomorrow”.

With those words left behind, she disappeared down a corridor that was almost certainly restricted to performers and staff.

And before the surrounding gazes could turn fully to me, I slipped away from my seat with all the inconspicuousness I could manage, having established myself as comprehensively out of place.

Even out in the corridor from the hall, the murmuring still hung in the air. From all directions, voices praising Kanzaki-san’s performance. And through those voices, her words came back to me.

“Today’s performance existed so I could stay with you. With Ogawa-san — with Uta”.

I didn’t yet fully understand what those words meant. But if that performance had truly been addressed to me, as they said — if what Kanzaki-san had been holding gently to her chest in the music was the days and time we’d spent together — then what a bottomless happiness that would be. The joy was too large to feel real. Only my heart kept pounding, violent and unstoppable.

Would Kanzaki-san appear in the music room tomorrow, as she’d said?

I wanted so badly to speak with her. As a kind of preparation for that — I thought I’d write today’s joy into the novel first. I was drifting along in that buoyant, unmoored way, when — like cold water thrown over all of it — I found myself looking directly at someone coming toward me from the other direction.

She was terrifyingly beautiful. The pale skin, the violet-indigo eyes — they come from her mother, of course, I thought, belatedly.

I considered pretending not to notice, slipping past. But unexpectedly — she was the one who spoke first.

“You’re Ogawa Uta, aren’t you.”

It was the first thing out of her mouth. She was tall and her expression was set hard, which made her voice carry a natural weight of authority.

I pressed my lips together and answered, on guard:

“Yes. Though I don’t recall telling you my name.”
“I heard it from that child. From Shion.”
“Did you.”

My attitude made no attempt to hide its wariness — and for just a moment, Kanzaki-san’s mother smiled. Then her expression shifted to something serious, and she said:

“About the other day — I came at you too harshly. As one adult to another — it wasn’t behaviour I can be proud of. And the way I spoke to Shion in front of her friend — that wasn’t something you should have had to see. I’m sorry. Truly.”

And with that, Kanzaki-san’s mother bowed deeply.

I stared at the sight of it, stunned. Being genuinely apologised to by an adult who wasn’t my mother — that was a first. I was learning for the first time how heavy a real apology could be, how it could exert something close to pressure. And that the one offering it was someone who had seemed so unyielding — that was a second shock layered onto the first.

And one more thing. Right now, Kanzaki-san’s mother looked profoundly worn down. The way she looked, in that moment — it was almost like Kanzaki-san, the first time we met. Like someone gripping hard against the terror of losing something.

“It’s all right. I think it’s completely all right. I can’t forgive the way you treated Shion-san as though she were an appendage to her music — but I think there must have been reasons for that too. So please, raise your head.”

Acceptance and reassurance tangled together into something. Kanzaki-san’s mother raised her head slowly, drew one long breath — and then, softly, as if to no one in particular, murmured:

“Where did I go wrong, I wonder…”

A quiet release of words. Kanzaki-san’s mother looked out into the empty air, the way you might follow the trail of cigarette smoke. The words weren’t directed at me — and though she didn’t spell out what the wrongness referred to, it was easy enough to understand that it meant Kanzaki-san.

Because at the centre of this woman’s life — all of it — was surely Shion.

Then there were words I had to say.

“I don’t think you went wrong. Because it’s because of you — that I met Shion-san. Talented at piano, unworldly, lovely and pure. I was saved by that Shion-san. So please — don’t call that a mistake.”

Kanzaki-san’s mother’s eyes went wide at my words. Then, as if to disguise something softer, she murmured:

“You use rather grand turns of phrase for your age. Like something out of a novel.”

An uppercut from an unexpected angle. The old me would have hidden it — that I wrote fiction. But now. From now on. Maybe it’s all right to be a little proud of what I write, I thought.

Because it’s the string of words that Kanzaki-san said she loved.

I put on a smile I wasn’t used to wearing, and said:

“Yes. I really do write novels. And even if they’ll never be as extraordinary as Shion-san’s music — I’ll keep writing, from here on!”

The embarrassment got away from me toward the end, and the last part came out slightly reckless. At that abrupt declaration, Kanzaki-san’s mother’s eyes went wide — and then she smiled, softly.

“Please take care of Shion.”

That smile looked very much like Kanzaki-san’s.

◇◇◇

One deep breath. Then she watched the small figure in the school uniform walking away.

That child is surely one whom words have loved. A child who can weave words that cut deep into someone’s heart.

Just as music has loved Shion.

And unlike me — who was never loved by music.