Chapter 3: The Light That Doesn't Fade

The gallery is quiet now.

The last few visitors had gone, leaving only the soft echo of their footsteps behind. Haruto stood in front of his painting — The Girl Beneath the Blossoms — long after the lights dimmed, arms folded, his face expressionless.

They had praised it. All of them Called it “brilliant,” “haunting,” “a masterpiece.”

But none of them knew the truth behind it — the ache in every brushstroke, the sorrow buried beneath the color. None of them saw the ghost that lingered behind the girl’s smile.

Only Haruto knew.

He didn’t seek attention. After the exhibition, he declined interviews, turned down agents. He spent his days walking campus alone, head low, sketchbook in hand. Not out of shyness anymore — but habit. It was easier to be silent than to answer the question in everyone’s eyes: Who was she?

One evening, he wandered into the old music room. Dust clung to the piano keys, the walls lined with faded posters of past concerts. He remembered her voice here, humming while he tuned his guitar. He hadn’t touched it since she passed.

But something made him pick it up.

The strings were out of tune, rough against his fingertips. He plucked a few chords — slowly, uncertainly. Then, without thinking, he began to sing.

His voice cracked in the first verse.

But in the second, it softened.

And by the chorus, it soared.

Not loud. Not powerful. But full of something real.

A janitor was walking by and paused at the door, listening with quiet awe. By the end of the song, Haruto was still staring at the guitar — as if it had spoken to him.

That night, he didn’t sleep.

He painted until dawn — then wrote a song on the back of the canvas.

He called it “Even If She’s Gone.”

It wasn’t meant for anyone else. Just him. But the music professor found a recording of it by accident, and within a week, the university asked Haruto to perform it at a charity event.

He said no.

Twice.

Then… he said yes.

The hall was full when he walked onto the stage. Spotlights bathed him in gold. He couldn’t see the audience — only shadows, silence, and his own breath hanging in the air.

He didn’t speak.

He just sang.

And when he finished, there was no applause at first.

Just stillness.

Then the room erupted.

It should’ve felt good. Pride. Joy.

But all Haruto felt was quiet. Like a gentle nod from the past — as if Aoi had heard it too, wherever she was.

From that night, he began to gain attention — not as a boy who lost someone, but as a rare voice, a rising artist. Offers poured in. Studios. Galleries. Recordings.

He accepted only what felt true to him.

He remained distant, always calm, always quiet.

He didn’t open up.

Not even once.

People thought it was mystery. But it wasn’t.

It was memory.

Years passed. And the boy once inspired by love became a man celebrated for it.

But in his quiet apartment, the burgundy scarf remained on a shelf, folded carefully. He never told anyone who it belonged to.

He just kept creating.

Because somewhere inside him, Haruto had made a promise:

“I’ll keep painting. I’ll keep singing. I’ll keep living. For both of us.”

---To be Continued