The summer festival spilled golden light over the riverside, paper lanterns bobbing like captured stars. Hana tugged at the ribbon on her mint-green yukata, cheeks flushed—not just from the heat. “It’s… louder than I remember,” she murmured, eyes flicking toward the shrine steps. Kaito, taller by a head and always slightly disheveled, scratched at his neck, a nervous half-smile tugging his lips. “Well, last time you were out here, you couldn’t even reach the dango stall.” He laughed, then instantly looked away, ears reddening. (Idiot. Why did I say that? She’s not a kid anymore…) They walked in threadbare silence, the festival’s chorus filling the spaces they couldn’t. Fireflies drifted between them like tiny messengers trying to close the gap. Hana’s fingers brushed her charm bracelet—three tiny bells chimed softly. “I wanted to tell you something,” she said. Her voice trembled. “About why I left town so suddenly last year. I—” A clap of thunderless noise cracked overhead—first fireworks—and her words evaporated into smoke and color. Kaito flinched, then forced a grin. “You don’t have to say it if—” She shook her head. “No. I do.” She looked up, eyes glassy with reflections, lips parting to speak. An orange lantern drifted loose from its string and the wind coaxed it toward the river, flame licking at its silk sides. Kaito bolted, almost slipping on wet stones, one hand outstretched. Hana reached too late, a sharp breath snagging in her throat. The lantern spun out over dark water—then caught in the branch of the old willow where they used to hide. Kaito sighed, relief exploding into laughter that sounded a little like sobbing. “I’ll get it. Don’t move.” Hana’s fists clenched at her sides. (If I say it now, everything changes…) The fireworks hissed into a brief silence, and when the next bloom should’ve come—none did. The sky went dark. The river reflected only their faces.
They found the hidden shrine by the willow—a place that felt too small for grown-up fears. Kaito crouched to free the lantern silk from the branch, breath steadying. “I kept your secret,” he said, almost to the flame. “That you were auditioning in the city. I told everyone you were visiting family.” Hana hugged her arms, nails biting into her sleeves. “You… knew?” Her voice cracked. He nodded. “I got your practice recordings by mistake. You sent them to me instead of your coach.” He scratched his cheek, wincing. “I listened. I shouldn’t have, but… I wanted to hear you win.” Hana sank to the mossy step, the lantern’s glow painting her face a warm confession. “I failed the final round.” Silence pressed in, thick and damp. “I froze. My throat locked and—” She swallowed, eyes shimmering. “I didn’t know how to come back. I thought you’d look at me and see… a quitter.” Kaito sat beside her, knees almost touching, then pulled back, blushing. “I’m not good with words,” he said, shoulders hunching. (Say it. Just say I waited.) “But I kept the lights on at the stage by the old gym. Thought if you ever came back, you’d… need somewhere to sing.” He exhaled, a laugh like a sigh. “And I—” The ground trembled. A hush rolled down from the dark sky toward the river, as if the night took a breath. A second lantern drifted free, this one blue, climbing upward without wind. The shrine’s fox statue flickered with reflected light that wasn’t fire. Hana’s bracelet bells rang once, then again—answering something. Kaito reached for her hand on instinct; she flinched, then didn’t let go. The river’s surface brightened, not from fireworks but from beneath, as if a sheet of glass lay over a secret sun. Hana’s voice shrank to a whisper. “The river’s… singing?” On the rising glow, faint words surfaced like distant choir notes—a melody she knew from her mother’s lullaby. Kaito squeezed her hand. “Your song.” And on that note, a silver shape surfaced out on the current, drifting toward them: a music box she hadn’t seen since childhood.
The music box chimed when Hana lifted it from the water, droplets falling like tiny bells. A familiar melody wound out—her mother’s lullaby, but fuller, deeper, like the river itself was singing along. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and laughed, breath hitching. “Mom always said the river keeps what we drop until we’re ready to take it back.” Kaito exhaled, shoulders loosening. “Then take it back.” His voice was steady now. (She’s braver than she thinks.) She turned the key, the tune spinning, and let the notes carry the words she’d swallowed for a year. She sang—quiet at first, then stronger—voice trembling, then smoothing as if polished by the current. The river answered with a shimmer that rose into the air, lantern-light returning like constellations remembering their places. Fireworks resumed, but softer, as if someone turned the world’s volume down so her song could lead. When she faltered, Kaito stepped in two beats early, humming the harmony he’d practiced alone in the empty gym. He winced, embarrassed, but didn’t stop. She laughed through a sob. “You practiced…” He blushed, ears bright. “I—yeah.” Their voices braided, and the glow followed, a ribbon of light winding around the willow and up the shrine. Hana drew a breath and finally spoke the thing stuck behind her ribs. “I left because I was scared to be ordinary. I came back because even if I fail again… I’d rather fail where you can hear me.” Kaito’s eyes widened, then softened. He didn’t fumble, didn’t look away. “Then I’ll be here—hearing you. Even when you don’t sing.” The last note hung, trembling, and the river stilled as if holding it safe. Hana pressed the music box to her chest, cheeks blazing. “Kaito, I—” The charm string in his pocket snapped free, tugged by the willow’s breeze, and a white paper slip fluttered into her hands, catching on her bracelet. She read the messy ink and swallowed hard: Keep the stage lights on. Come home. Her fingers shook. “Okay,” she whispered, smiling through tears. “Tomorrow, we rehearse.” The fireworks bloomed into a heart by accident—or fate—and the bracelet bells rang, bright as morning.
