Not my ass going on a whole psychological and emotional journey to decide whether it's socially acceptable for fictional characters that are obviously into each other but haven't done anything about it yet to live under the same roof for a couple of days. Is it too early?
So what if this took fifteen years. It's here, it's gay. It's a happy ending. It gives you hope for Eye of the Beholder!
I hope you enjoyed the short ride. There's plenty of this where it came from. I have a bunch of vignettes mapped out. Some more explicit than others, some serious, some silly. Maybe they'll make it here. Maybe not. But revisiting this universe was really fun.
Chapter one, two and three are available.
Chapter 4 - Legato
Words: 2452
Pairing: Shizuma Hanazono/Original Female Character
Still takes place after the anime. Shizuma's now almost thirty-two.
“So…”
“So.”
The word hung awkwardly in the dark between them.
“Come here often?”
Shizuma could hear the grin in the woman’s voice and pictured it instantly, half teasing, half mortified at her own line.
She let out a breathy chuckle. “Terrible.”
“Oh, come on,” the woman feigned outrage. “Not smooth enough for you?”
Their shared laughter diffused the tension by a sliver. The air between them, once heavy with silence, began to shift.
“I take it you’re here for the reception?” Shizuma asked.
A small pause. “Yes. Yeah.”
There was something charming about how she spoke. Clipped, direct. Not curt.
“Are you an agent ?” Shizuma asked, genuinely curious. It wasn’t uncommon to see talent scouted at events like this, but the idea felt odd, an agent who could hold a violin like that...
“No.” Her voice tilted toward incredulous, on the verge of scandalized. “Do I look like one?” She paused, then added dryly, “Wait, never mind. You can’t see me.”
Shizuma smiled in the dark. Oh, but I can.
The video had etched her into memory. That focus. That spark. That impossible dimple. From the glimpse she caught earlier, the woman hadn’t changed much.
“Plus one,” the woman added casually.
Two words. That was all it took.
“Oh…” It came out clipped. Too sharp.
If the woman noticed the tone, she didn’t let on. “What about you?” She asked.
“Work duties,” Shizuma said, her voice flatter than intended.
The silence that followed was too long, the kind that gnawed at Shizuma’s thoughts, made them spiral, curled in a familiar corner of disappointment. She brooded.
Rule number one: never go for the straight girl.
Then came a sigh next to her, followed by a shuffle and the sound of the woman sitting down.
“What are you doing ?” Shizuma asked, peering down.
“Getting comfortable. We’re going to be here a while. Might as well.”
She has a point. Shizuma kicked off her heels, and slowly lowered herself to the floor. She stretched her legs, exhaled.
“Same,” came the woman’s content murmur.
It pulled a reluctant smile from Shizuma’s lips. A quiet pulse of warmth moved through her.
She dragged her purse toward her, checked her phone for the hundredth time. No signal. Shizuma tsked softly.
“Your boyfriend must be worried.”
The second she said it, Shizuma regretted it. Petty. Unfiltered. An unnecessary jab that hadn’t asked for permission.
A laugh, short, surprised. She took a second, then connected the dots. “Oh. I’m the plus one, right. No. It’s not like that.” A beat. “He needed company. I needed access.” Then, a little quieter: “I came to find someone.”
The admission sent a flicker of something sharp through Shizuma. Interest. Hope. Guarded caution.
Do you remember?
The question burned at the back of her throat.
“Hopefully they’ll still be there when we get out,” Shizuma said instead. Classic misfire. Self-sabotage had become muscle memory.
She thought back to the way she’d pushed Nagisa away out of fear. How she had encouraged her to run for Étoile, how she had convinced herself that what she felt was too much, too soon, and that Kaori’s ghost still had too much of her to allow anything else.
More than decade later and she was still bracing for pain.
“It’s no one special, really.” The woman next to her said, eventually. “I was hoping to find a musician for a little thing I’m organizing.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a teacher,” she said. Her voice brightened a shade. “At the Conservatory of Nice.”
Shizuma blinked. That… hadn’t been what she expected. She had pictured a soloist. A member of some chamber orchestra. Not a teacher. It felt—
“Unusual, right?”
Caught red-handed in silence, Shizuma flushed. Thank God for the dark.
“I didn’t mean… I wasn’t judging.”
A warm laugh. “Relax. You’re not the first.”
Shizuma felt a light pat near her leg. The gesture, brief and unfussy, landed deeper than it should have.
“I was a soloist for a while,” the woman said, then fell quiet again. But something about the silence said not finished. And then she kept going.
She told her, not everything, but enough. About airports, soulless hotels, arrogant conductors. About how the glamour faded fast. How no one tells you it gets lonely. That even when you’re brilliant, you still get looked down on.
Eventually, she’d had enough. She quit.
“…Wasn’t for me, I guess,” she said finally, letting it settle.
Shizuma’s voice was soft. “I understand.”
She meant it. Completely.
“I’m sure you do,” the other woman said in a quiet breath. "Hey." She had shifted slightly closer. "Would you… consider doing it?"
A very small, very immature part of Shizuma snickered. “…Doing what?” she asked carefully.
“Come to the conservatory. Give a masterclass? The kids would love it.”
“I’m not a teacher,” Shizuma said, quieter this time. Not dismissive. Just… hesitant. “I don’t think I would be any good at it.”
“That’s exactly why you’re perfect,” the woman said. “They don’t want polished lessons. They want stories. Reality. From someone they admire. Someone they can see.”
Someone they admire…
The words settled slowly, clicking into place. The phrase hit like a match struck in the dark.
"You know who I am." It wasn’t a question, not even an accusation. Just a quiet fact.
There was a pause, then a sigh. "Yes."
Shizuma turned toward her in the dark. "Did you come here to find me?" The question came out softer than intended. Uncertain. What do you want from me?
"No." It came quickly, sincerely. "I… I had no idea you’d be here." A pause. "Forget I said anything, I’m just..." her voice faltered, folding in on itself. Just ridiculous, probably. Or just embarrassed.
Shizuma could hear it, the way the mood shifted into a familiar kind of regret that said: I’ve done this before. Ruined the moment.
"I’ll do it," she said.
"W-what?"
"I’ll do the masterclass." Her voice steadied. Saying it out loud made the choice real and unexpectedly welcome.
"You're sure?" The woman still sounded cautious, a little unsure of the sudden change.
"Yes." Shizuma glanced at her purse. "I’ll need to talk to my team about scheduling, but… I want to." And she did.
"Whenever you're free. No rush." That smile again, Shizuma could hear it in the other woman’s voice, small and satisfied. "If you're coming, then my job here is done. As soon as we’re out of this box, I’m gone."
Lucky you… Shizuma smiled to herself, a little bitter. "What will you do?"
Some shifting, a light rustle of fabric. Her voice came closer. "Go back to my hotel. Change into something I can breathe in. Raid the room service. Watch something stupid."
Shizuma chuckled. "Sounds perfect."
"You're welcome to join," she added breezily, not missing a beat.
It was obviously a joke. Probably. Shizuma let the silence stretch just long enough.
"Is that an invitation?" she asked lightly, playing along.
"What if it is?"
Shizuma wished she could see her face. Just enough to gauge whether the teasing was truly harmless… or something else. The silence between them shimmered, holding its breath.
"Are you flirting with me?" she asked finally, blunt out of necessity.
A beat. "What if I am?"
Oh. Her throat tightened. Careful now.
There it was again, that slow-blooming warmth that hadn’t touched her in years. It filled her chest and crawled down her arms, tempting, terrifying.
Shizuma exhaled, searching for the right words. Not cold. Not accusing. Just true.
"I don’t do… experiments." Her voice was quiet now, almost tentative. "If this is just curiosity…"
"It’s not," came the answer. No hesitation this time. "Never said you would be."
The air thickened between them, charged with what hadn’t been said. A quiet sort of awareness that made the space feel smaller. Their breathing slower. Shallower. Close enough to feel, to notice.
Then, a touch. Light, tentative. Fingertips grazing hers. A question, wordless.
Is this okay?
Shizuma turned her hand over, letting their fingers loosely intertwine. Her thumb brushed slow circles over the other woman’s knuckles.
Yes.
She felt flushed and anchored at once, like she was holding still inside a storm.
If she turned her head slightly, they might’ve—
The elevator gave a low, grumbling lurch and rumbled back to life, beginning its descent. Both women startled, scoffing in unison before breaking into quiet laughter. They blinked as the lights flickered back on, each politely looking elsewhere as if they hadn’t just…
They stood up quickly. Shizuma slipped back into her heels, ran a trembling hand through her hair. The other woman smoothed out her gown, adjusting her bracelet and slipped back into her shoes.
When the doors slid open, the technician standing outside blinked at the sight of them. Slightly rumpled, red-faced, eyes suspiciously shiny.
“Sorry it took so long,” the man said with an awkward smile, scratching behind his ear. “These models are ancient. One wire out of place and it’s a whole puzzle.”
Shizuma didn’t trust her voice, so she just nodded. Her head was still spinning, full of might-have-beens.
The woman next to her cleared her throat. “Thank you.”
“I can send you back up,” he offered, gesturing vaguely toward the panel. Her grimace stopped him mid-motion. “Or... stairs, maybe? After being stuck that long, you might not want to risk it again,” he added with a sheepish chuckle.
They stepped into the hallway, walking side by side. Close, but not touching. Their steps slowed as they reached the stairwell, the muted buzz of the reception rising faintly through the walls above.
Shizuma hesitated at the door. Her hand rested lightly on the handle, but she didn’t move. Her phone was buzzing insistently in her purse: messages, missed calls, obligations waiting upstairs.
But...
She had already let one moment slip through her fingers. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
So she turned. Reached. Laced her fingers through the stranger’s and gave her hand a tug.
No words.
Just a quiet, breathless grin as she led them toward the exit.
They did exactly what the woman said they would. And Shizuma didn’t mind one bit.
It wasn’t glamorous. Room service, oversized t-shirts, half-laughed conversations under dim light while the TV murmured in the background, but it was… grounding.
Comforting.
Isis - finally, she had a name - had offered her something loose to wear, and Shizuma had gratefully swapped her reception gown for a borrowed t-shirt that fell to mid-thigh. They had both been starving by the time they reached the hotel, ordering far too much food and finishing only half of it. Neither of them had really noticed. The hours slipped away as they talked about everything and nothing, voices growing slower, softer, slurred, until the only thing left was the quiet rhythm of their breathing and the weight of unspoken things.
It was one of the best nights of Shizuma’s life.
“Why didn’t you say anything, then?” she asked the next morning around a sip of coffee. It was nearing ten. Neither of them had slept much, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The fatigue didn’t seem to reach her smile.
Isis shrugged, tearing a warm pain au chocolat down the middle with her fingers. “What did you want me to say? Hey, remember me from seven years ago? No? Cool. Bye.”
Shizuma laughed. “Fair point.” She could’ve said something, too. Instead, she had kept circling like a skittish teenager.
Her phone buzzed against the table near her water glass. A glance at the screen confirmed it: Miyuki, again.
Shizuma sighed theatrically and reached for it. “I have to take this,” she murmured, apologetic, before stepping out onto the small balcony.
The conversation was short. Firm. Miyuki’s voice had that clipped efficiency she always used when juggling a dozen spinning plates.
Come back. Quick.
They’d managed to contain the fallout. Shizuma’s absence had been chalked up to post-elevator trauma, which, given how long they’d been stuck, wasn’t entirely untrue. The guests had taken the bait. Her inbox was full of “get well soon” messages and polite concern.
Miyuki was a miracle worker. She’d earned more than a raise.
Shizuma returned to the room and threw the phone on the nightstand. Isis was still curled in a chair by the breakfast table, coffee cradled in both hands. She smiled up at her, and Shizuma felt her whole body soften in response.
The words hung in the air like the faint chill of morning. Isis nodded, eyes dropping to her lap. “Can’t be helped, I guess.” The smile she managed didn’t quite make it to her eyes.
Shizuma blinked.
No.
No, that wasn’t how this ended.
She crossed the room in three long strides, flipped the chair Isis was curled in, and knelt down in front of her without thinking. Her arms folded on the woman’s lap, chin resting on them, gaze intent and unwavering.
“I want to see you again,” she said. A beat. “…If you would like to.”
For a moment, there was nothing. Just the silence and the faint wariness curling in her gut. Shizuma had done this before. The passionate confession. The reckless leap. And afterward, the silence of someone else’s retreat.
But then…
“I’d like that,” Isis whispered, smile spreading slowly across her face. “I’d like that very much.”
Shizuma’s heart stuttered. She beamed.
—0—
They made it work, somehow.
It wasn’t always easy. Compromises had to be made, conversations had to happen. For the first year, they couldn’t see each other often. But every stolen moment, every coffee shared in airports and afternoons on borrowed time, made the stretches between bearable. Planning ahead didn’t feel like a burden anymore. And spontaneity found its way back in.
Isis said I love you first. Shizuma had forgotten how to breathe.
She never asked Isis to leave her job. Never would. When Isis cut back her hours and took on fewer students, it was her decision. For them. And Shizuma, stunned and deeply humbled, knew how much that meant.
When they decided to move in together, two years later, there hadn’t even been a conversation about where. The answer was already in her heart: somewhere near Nice. Shizuma could leave London behind. That was easy.
Isis cried. She denied it afterward.
They made it work.
And no matter how crowded, no matter how chaotic, train stations would always hold something sacred between them. A memory. A beginning. Whenever they walked past a piano, fingers brushing, eyes meeting, the same quiet smile would bloom between them like a secret.
Shizuma shivered and groaned all at once, cursing her immune system for abandoning her now. At least she hadn’t sneezed her way through last night’s concert. Small mercies.
“Here,” Miyuki’s voice came from beside her just before a warm paper cup appeared in front of her. “Drink.”
She accepted it with a congested sigh, cradling the cup in both hands like a relic. “I hate my life.”
“It’s just a cold, Shizuma.”
“But I hate my life.”
It happened every time. Like clockwork, the moment she came down with anything: from flu to the faintest fever, Shizuma reverted into a particularly dramatic seven-year-old. Admittedly, it didn’t happen often, but when it did, it did.
Miyuki pinched the bridge of her nose and sat down with her own coffee. They’d have to head to the airport soon, but the café near Munich Hauptbahnhof was warm, and neither of them was eager to face the biting cold outside. The weather was unusually brutal, even for Germany.
Her coat pocket buzzed. Miyuki didn’t quite hide the little smile that broke across her face as she checked the screen. She only realized it when she felt Shizuma’s gaze on her like a winter draft.
“My, my…” Shizuma straightened, arms crossed. “Did you just smile? On your own? In public?”
The glare she received made her smirk.
“Hot date tonight?”
“No,” Miyuki said too quickly.
Shizuma raised a single brow, slow and skeptical.
“I said no,” she repeated, more composed this time. “Besides, who’s going to take care of you if I leave?”
Shizuma looked genuinely offended. “What am I, ten? I don’t need a–” She sneezed directly into her sleeve. “Babysitter,” she finished, a little deflated. “Don’t you dare,” she added, pointing at Miyuki’s smug face.
“Too late.” Miyuki grinned.
It had taken a long time, and more than one quiet night over wine, for Miyuki to shake off the guilt her family had instilled in her after the divorce. Their final offer had been generous, if archaic: marry the approved candidate, take a lover on the side if she must, just provide them with an heir.
That had been her breaking point.
One night, she packed her bags, left a courteous note to her would-be husband who hadn’t really done anything wrong, and knocked on Shizuma’s door. Not sad. Just done.
Now, she worked alongside Shizuma’s agent, handling PR and press with the same polished control she’d once used to manage her high school reputation as Étoile.
To celebrate her official freedom, Shizuma had dragged her to a pub called Freedom. Miyuki hadn’t realized what kind of establishment it was until her so-called friend vanished to the bathroom, leaving her alone at the bar for all of two minutes before a stranger struck up a conversation. A female stranger with flattering compliments and a suspicious number of accidental brushes.
Miyuki didn’t speak to Shizuma for two days after that fiasco.
Shizuma had apologized eventually, and promised never to ambush her again. If, and only if, Miyuki agreed to start dating on her own. Preferably within this lifetime.
The first attempts had been an awkward mess. Cringe-inducing, really. She’d often flee before 10pm, citing everything from early meetings to laundry emergencies. Meanwhile, she watched Shizuma, cool, composed, magnetic, effortlessly sweep people off their feet.
When Shizuma decided to turn it on, she turned it on.
And yet, despite the polish, Miyuki could always tell when she was elsewhere.
Like now.
The second she put her phone away, she caught that faraway look in Shizuma’s eyes. Quiet. Flickering. Distant. She had retreated somewhere in her own head, lost in a memory Miyuki couldn’t touch. The melancholy wasn’t overwhelming, not like after Kaori, but it was there. A faded ache.
When Shizuma had first told her the story, about her, Miyuki hadn’t realized just how deeply it would root itself. Shizuma had only met her once. But sometimes, she would go hauntingly still. And Miyuki knew. Knew it wasn’t over. Knew she’d never do anything about it.
They’d talked it through, more than once. But Shizuma, stubborn to her core, refused to involve anyone in tracking the stranger down. She didn’t believe in fate. And she certainly didn’t believe in chasing it.
Besides, she claimed to be perfectly content now.
Miyuki sighed and glanced at her watch. “Let’s go?”
Shizuma blinked like she’d been roused from sleep. “Yes.”
They stood, gathered their things, and stepped into the street without a backward glance.
Had they turned around, just once, just for a second, they might have noticed the table by the window on the other side of the café…
-0-
“I feel like you don’t even care,” he said, trying not to sound pathetic and failing miserably.
Isis blinked at him. “I do?”
It came out more like a question than an answer. She didn’t even sound convincing to herself.
“You weren’t listening. Just now, you zoned out.”
“I was listening,” she said quickly. “I was thinking. About what you said.”
He tilted his head, unimpressed. “You were thinking about the wall.”
Now she was annoyed. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot I needed your permission to have a thought.”
“This whole thing… it was a mistake,” he muttered, like it was some great epiphany.
Her patience snapped. “You wanted long-distance, remember? You’re the one who begged me to give this a chance.” She gestured between them, sharp and fast. “To give us a chance.”
This train wreck should’ve ended years ago. But of course, it couldn’t have been a clean break. No hard feelings, no bittersweet goodbye. Instead, it had to mutate into this exhausting ordeal of weekend visits, overplanned schedules, and dead-eyed video calls on Whatsapp. He wanted plans, he wanted routines. Everything pre-booked, every moment choreographed around train tickets.
And then he had the nerve to act surprised that she wasn’t leaping to follow him to Germany.
She had a life too. A good job. Friends. Family. A cat. She didn’t want to move.
Yes, it had been nice waking up next to someone. Nice. Comfortable. But not love. Not fireworks. Not even sparks. It was tepid. It was beige. It was fine.
Until it wasn’t.
Isis had wanted to end it ages ago, but then he got clingy. Teary. And she wasn’t a monster. She felt bad, and she said yes. Not because she loved him, but because she didn’t want to be the villain. And now here they were, sitting in a café in Munich, rehashing the same doomed script. Because she was an idiot.
“I know what I said,” he mumbled, pulling her out of her spiral. “But it’s obvious this isn’t working.”
She bit down. Hard. “So it’s my fault now?”
He shrugged. Didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.
She let out a short laugh, bitter and tired. “You know what? If you wanted to break up, you should’ve done it over the phone. Faster. Cheaper.”
She stood abruptly, yanked her coat off the chair.
“Enjoy your fucking pretzel.”
Isis booked a taxi straight to the airport. Her boots stomped across the tile floor like they were punishing the earth. She marched up to the airline desk.
ID. Credit card. Scowl.
“I’d like to change my flight. For today.”
Perks of being EU-based: no passport, no checked bag, no frills. Just a breakup and the money she would have spent on cheesy dinners this week.
He could mail her stuff. Or burn it. She didn’t care.
By the time she was in the security line, Isis was miserable, hot, cranky, bloated, cramping, and seconds away from crying or punching someone. She sighed and rubbed her temples, eyes flicking across the crowd without interest as the line crawled forward.
And then, a sneeze.
Not just any sneeze.
Silver hair. A flash of it, caught in the bright overhead lights ahead of her, brushing a shoulder as someone adjusted their scarf.
Her heart stopped. Her lungs forgot what they were doing.
No way.
It was fast. The glimpse was brief. But every cell in her body screamed the same thing: it’s her.
Isis moved without thinking, took a step forward, only to be blocked by a tall man with a bulky carry-on and a judgmental frown.
““I–I wasn’t trying to…” she started, peering past him.
But it was too late. The silver-haired woman had already passed through security and disappeared into the tide of travelers swallowed up by the terminal.
Just like that.
Gone.
Isis swallowed, her pulse still racing.
Just my luck.
The woman she’d low-key obsessed over for years. The woman she’d imagined meeting again under a thousand different scenarios. The one she’d never had the guts to ask for a name, or number, or even a stupid business card.
Right there, and still completely unreachable.
Her foot bounced restlessly until it was finally her turn. As soon as she was through security, Isis broke into a sprint, darting from gate to gate, scanning every corner of the terminal like a bloodhound with a bad sense of direction.
No luck.
Out of breath, out of luck and overheated, she finally slumped into her seat, watching her boarding group shuffle forward in a blur.
Just shy of her thirty second birthday, Karma decided to give Shizuma one final, elegantly orchestrated push.
She had reached that level of notoriety where the profession’s most persistent egos now sought her out at receptions to regale her with thoughts she hadn’t asked for. These days, she rarely left a gathering without having her ear talked off by someone deeply convinced their musical insight was as valuable as their wine collection.
The attention from the general public, though less invasive, was also on the rise, a hybridization of acclaim she could have done without, if not for the occasional young girl or boy who stopped her in the street to say she’d inspired them to start taking music lessons. That, at least, never failed to bring a quiet smile to her face.
Tonight, however, she wasn’t smiling.
Her expression was threatening to slip into a frown for the third time in fifteen minutes, and only sheer discipline kept her mask in place.
The reception was being held on the eleventh floor of a Luxembourgish building that, if anyone had bothered to ask her, should have been condemned forty-years ago. The interior was an attempt at grandeur, all gilded molding and grotesquely large chandeliers, but it only managed to smell like old money and worse taste.
“I know you don’t want to be here,” her agent said mildly as they walked down the corridor toward the elevator, his pace deliberately slowed.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” she said, flashing him a broad, sparkling smile so obviously fake it bordered on performance art.
He snorted, squeezing her forearm briefly and leaning in to murmur, “Never change.”
“I don’t intend to.”
It had taken them a while to get here, to this rhythm, this shorthand. He had learned over time to stop hovering, to stop trying to mold her into what other clients had needed him to be.
He had mellowed even further once Miyuki joined her inner circle and assumed the reins of public image and tone. These days, he no longer questioned her calendar, her whims, or her sudden refusals. In exchange, she tolerated the occasional mandatory reception and industry dinner with minimal protest.
They didn’t play games. Not with each other. And Shizuma liked that about him.
A small group of older men loitered near the elevator. As she approached, their heads turned. Too quickly. Too in sync. Her face went still. Not a smile, not a not. Perfect stillness.
The elevator chimed, the door opening with a long hydraulic hiss.
No one moved.
They hesitated, half a beat too long, clearly waiting to see if she would step forward first. A quiet, smug dare.
A pause, then the first one stepped forward, brushing past her with a chuckle. Another followed, shoulders hunched forward, scratching the side of his gut through his blazer. One let out a sigh through his nose, loud and damp. The scent rolled in, assaulting her nostrils like an insult: cheap spice, expensive musk, layered over sweat. Something sour and over-applied. Faint breath mint.
Fabric strained at their shoulders. Someone’s cuff brushed the mirrored wall, the lighting flickered once overhead, the elevator groaned again, quieter.
Shizuma’s body tensed. She stayed where she was.
Her agent stepped in, casual as ever.
“Uh,” she said, flat and took a measured step back. “I’ll wait for the next one.”
Shizuma wasn’t getting trapped in a shoe-box with penguin suits, three varieties of ego-sweat and enough synthetic fragrance to fumigate the chapel on Astrae Hill.
Their smirk faltered. One even had the audacity to look like he might say something. Her agent turned and winked.
“See you up there.”
Shizuma exhaled through her nose.
Two minutes.
That’s all she wanted. Just two minutes of unbreached space before she had to go upstairs and smile through hollow praise, pretend she didn’t see their eyes drop to her chest mid-sentence, pretend not to notice the wives watching her like a threat in heels.
She let the next elevator go. And the three after that. Shizuma hated using her name as an excuse, but they could wait.
Right when she had finally parlayed herself into joining the reception, hurried footsteps rounded the corner behind her, the sharp click of heels paired with a voice loud enough to echo down the corridor.
“Look, I know I’m late. I’m literally in the building right now. Yes, yes. Will you chill for a minute? No, I—what ? Of course I—”
The voice faltered mid-sentence. Shizuma turned instinctively.
And the world stopped moving.
The woman standing a few meters away had her phone half-lowered, a dimple curling faintly into one cheek as she blinked. Not full recognition, just the vague, startled kind offered to strangers in unexpectedly awkward hallway collisions. But Shizuma recognized her.
Of course she did.
That smile. That voice. That impossible, unmistakable presence.
Seven years folded into themselves like pages snapping shut in her chest. The train station. The duet. The laugh. The arm she hadn’t reached for in time. The name she never asked.
Shizuma couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t speak.
“I’ll see you in a few,” the woman murmured into her phone, then slipped it into her purse. She smoothed her gown reflexively, brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and looked up with a quick, apologetic smile. “Sorry about that.”
Shizuma stared. Say something. Anything.
You’re real. You’re here. You still exist.
Nothing.
The silence stretched. The woman stepped forward, unbothered, and pressed the call button beside her. She didn’t look again, just lifted her chin and pretended to be absorbed in the blinking numbers above the elevator door.
Shizuma stood beside her in rigid silence, heart thundering behind her ribs. She wanted to scream. Or vanish. Or both. You had one job. Speak. Speak!
You’re an idiot. Stupid, mute, socially bankrupt idiot.
The elevator arrived. They stepped inside.
Still silent. Still close enough to feel the heat radiating off each other.
The doors closed, sealing them in a metal box with several floors of tension rising steadily between them.
And then, because of course, the elevator groaned and lurched to a dead stop.
Lights flickered out. The hum of movement died. Both women yelped in surprise as the floor stilled beneath them.
By instinct, Shizuma’s hand shot out to catch her, just as the other woman’s hand reached for hers. A moment of shared breath, skin against skin in the dark.
“Thanks,” the stranger said, voice softer now. Her fingers lingered longer than they needed to. “Good reflexes.”
Shizuma let go reluctantly, her hand tingling where their skin had touched.
“You have got to be kidding me…” the woman muttered, stepping forward and fumbling for the panel. Her hand tapped the edge, searching. “I hope you’re not claustrophobic. Are you claustrophobic?”
There was a hitch in her voice, not dramatic, but audible. Shizuma caught the sound of fingernails brushing metal. The shuffle of weight. The little signs of someone trying to stay calm in the dark.
“I… I don’t think so.” There. Words. She could do it. Her voice came rough, but steady. “I’m not,” she repeated, firmer this time.
“Good. Less chance to pass out.”
Shizuma glanced over, eyes adjusting to the faint glow as the other woman fished through her bag. A moment later, the flashlight of her phone burst to life and caught them both directly in the eyes. Shizuma squinted and looked away while the other woman angled the beam toward the control panel, scanning until she found the emergency tab and pressed it, seconds before the screen went black. Battery gone.
Because of course.
“Just my luck,” she said, a breath beneath her words. Then, more clearly: “We’ll be okay.”
Shizuma closed her eyes for a second, centering herself. Hearing her speak English after all their exchanges in French landed oddly. Same voice. Different register. It was strange, like being handled a second version of someone she hadn’t finished meeting the first time.
The alarm screeched through the small cabin, too loud, too sharp. Both women flinched. The sound rattled the metal and their nerves alike, echoing off the walls and clawing its way down their spines.
To their credit, the emergency service picked up within ten minutes. The voice on the other end was calm and maddeningly cheerful.
“Please remain calm and try some breathing exercises…”
They both scoffed.
“We will have an expert with you shortly.” The voice added.
“Define shortly,” the woman asked flatly.
A pause.
“Erm… within two hours? Probably?”
“Thanks,” she said, jaw tight.
Shizuma didn’t need to look to recognize restraint. It came off the woman like heat.
“I’m sorry ma’am,” the man offered.
The woman let out a sharp breath. “I’m sure you are.”
It wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t generous either.
“Thank you, anyway.” She added, calmer.
The call ended. A click, then silence.
The elevator seemed to darken all at once. The light was gone, the fan had either slowed or she had stopped noticing it. The air pressed in again, thick, still, too close.
Neither of them spoke.
Shizuma shifted slightly, careful not to brush the other woman’s arm. Somewhere in the ceiling, the machinery gave a mechanical sigh. Her feet were aching, her gown clung faintly at the back.
Shizuma didn’t check the time. She knew she wouldn’t like the answer.
Perchance Encounter - A Strawberry Panic fanfiction
Don't ask. I just need to get it out of my system.
Chapter 3 (the last one) will follow some time soon. Maybe.
Chikaru is a direct transplant from Strawberry Panic, as is Miyuki, Shizuma's best friend, the closest person to her. Basically they're all friends from high school. Nagisa is the ex. Not the one you don't talk about, the nice one.
Chapter 1 available here
Would you mind if I played with you?
Improvise.
Thank you for humoring me.
Shizuma let her limbs be arranged without resistance as her mind replayed the words again. They had a habit of returning during quiet moments like this, when her body was still but her thoughts refused to follow. The memory clung stubbornly to her ribs, curling in place with familiar frustration.
“What’s with the long face?”
Chikaru’s voice, light as ever, broke gently into her reverie. Shizuma blinked, realizing too late that she’d been scowling. Again.
“Thinking,” she replied, offering a vague smile.
Chikaru stood at her side with a measuring tape in one hand and a pencil behind one ear. They were in her studio, small, warm, still smelling faintly of steam and chalk. It wasn’t glamorous, not yet. But it was hers. And in this little haven of fabric bolts and pinned sketches, Shizuma trusted her enough to be still.
“Work?” Chikaru asked. Her tone was easy, but there was a glint in her eyes. She already knew the answer.
Shizuma shook her head.
“Matters of the heart, then?”
That earned a dry huff. That's a very dramatic way to put it, Shizuma thought, wryly.
“Not exactly.”
Chikaru only smiled and gestured for her to turn. “No?” she pressed, catching the thread of interest like a cat with ribbon.
Shizuma obeyed the rotation, letting her voice stay even. “Something happened. A while ago. Just… something strange. I find myself thinking about it now and then.”
Almost three months, to be precise. Not that she was counting. Admittedly.
Chikaru hummed, holding a pin between her lips as she stepped back to evaluate. Her gaze scanned from shoulder to hem, calculating. Something sleek, something elegant. She glanced at Shizuma’s eyes: amber-gold today, and smirked. Emerald green, she thought. Just enough contrast to catch the light.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“What strange thing?”
Shizuma looked away, jaw tightening. It was pointless to try and conceal anything, Chikaru could sniff out subtext in silence. Even without details, she’d already formed a dozen conclusions. And if Shizuma gave her even crumbs, she’d build a theory airtight enough to patent.
Still, she tried.
She relayed the story, carefully, clinically. She spoke of the station, the duet, the missing name. Her voice didn’t rise, even in the parts that had sparked something unexpected in her. But Chikaru’s raised brow said everything. She was listening between the lines.
When she returned, her arms were full of fabric. She handed Shizuma a bolt of green and gestured for her to hold it near her face.
“And you didn’t think to ask for her name?”
“There wasn’t time.” Shizuma adjusted the fabric. “Her train had already arrived.”
What she didn’t add: she hadn’t thought to. Not until she was already watching her disappear.
Chikaru studied her from behind the fabric, eyes glinting. “Where was she headed?”
“South.” Shizuma lowered her arms. “That’s all she said.”
“Marseille? Avignon? Nice?”
Shizuma sighed. “Somewhere between Paris and oblivion.” She paused. “I looked it up. There were six stops.”
Chikaru didn’t laugh, but she smiled. The kind of smile she used when she knew more than she let on. She patted Shizuma’s arm lightly, smoothing the edge of the green cloth.
“That one’s it,” she murmured to herself. “Color’s perfect. Makes your eyes do that molten thing.”
Shizuma arched a brow. “That’s not a technical term.”
“It should be.”
They lapsed into silence for a moment as Chikaru marked the hem with chalk.
“You’ve been quieter lately,” she said eventually.
Shizuma didn’t reply.
“You’re not holding out hope, are you?”
“No,” Shizuma answered too quickly. “I mean, no. I don’t believe in that.”
“Mmm.” Chikaru tapped the pencil against her wrist. “You don’t believe in fate.”
“Not after Kaori,” Shizuma said softly, then immediately regretted the bluntness.
But Chikaru didn’t flinch. She simply nodded once, adjusted the angle of her measuring tape, and kept moving.
“Maybe it’s not fate,” she said at last. “Maybe it’s timing. Maybe this is the first time you’ve been ready to meet someone without ghosts trailing behind you.”
Shizuma didn’t answer. Chikaru spoke from a place of knowledge, witness to her descent. The grief folded into silence, the passing shadows of girls whom Shizuma never allowed to stay long enough to be named. Chikaru had been a quiet observer, carrying that knowledge like a secret, never to be spoken aloud.
“You’ll see her again,” Chikaru added brightly, as if they’d been discussing a misplaced scarf. “You’re due a karmic favor.”
Shizuma allowed herself a brief smile.
Maybe.
But as Chikaru moved behind her, Shizuma’s gaze drifted to the far wall, already hearing the echo of a violin in her mind.
The cosmic intervention came from the last person Shizuma would have expected: Nagisa.
She was in the middle of a meeting, discussing recital logistics with her freshly hired agent, when her phone buzzed on the table. A message preview lit up the screen, emoji-filled and unmistakably Nagisa.
Hey, you must be super busy with everything going on! I’m so happy for you!!
I stumbled on this—wait, is that you??
A link sat beneath the text. Shizuma frowned briefly, tapped her phone face-down, and refocused on her conversation. It could wait. It was only hours later, curled in the backseat of a taxi, that she remembered.
She plugged in her earphones. Opened the link.
The video started mid-motion, the camera jerky and the angle far off. It took a moment, but yes, that was her back, her coat, her posture, perched at a piano bench in some anonymous corner of a train station. The noise was awful. The would-be cameraman kept shushing his friends.
“Dude, no way, she’s hot. I thought she was like… forty.”
“You’re loud. Shut up.”
The sound of Chopin filtered through the din, staticky but unmistakable. She remembered that passage, how it had settled under her fingers without thought. And she remembered what came after.
Her throat tightened.
Three minutes and twelve seconds in, a figure entered from the left. The camera caught the moment she turned, caught her own startled expression and then the violinist stepped closer, crouched.
“Wait, wait. Is she gonna join her?”
“Shhh. For God’s sake, shut it.”
The video wobbled again, cutting out briefly before snapping back in focus. Now the two of them were visible, side by side. Shizuma could see her own hands, fluid and confident. She could see the other woman’s profile, how she leaned into her bow with control and ease. The way her gaze kept flicking: piano, keys, her.
A heat curled at the base of Shizuma’s neck.
Watching it through someone else’s lens was unnerving. She hadn’t remembered smiling like that. But there it was. Honest, involuntary. A moment blooming from silence.
The violinist matched her, step for step. Their harmony built and broke and caught again, like dancers adjusting to each other mid-spin. The applause came too quickly. The camera jolted. She just caught the moment they shook hands, her fingers, slow to let go before the footage ended.
Shizuma stared at her darkened phone screen for a long time, earbuds still in, the faint buzz of the taxi blurring beneath her pulse.
“We’re here, ma’am,” the driver said.
Shizuma blinked. “Right. Yes. Thank you.” She paid and stepped out, still floating somewhere above her own body.
It took her another two hours to draft a reply to Nagisa.
Thank you, Nagisa. I hope you and Tamao are doing well. Yes, it’s me in the video.
She stared. Deleted it.
Typed again. Then erased that, too.
What could she say? “By the way, I’ve been thinking about that woman for three months and forgot to ask her name. Any chance your girlfriend can work her stalkery witchcraft?”
Absolutely not.
Shizuma sighed, started over.
Thanks again. Let’s catch up sometime soon, maybe coffee?
She hit send. Then closed her phone, set it aside, and leaned her head back against the window. She told herself she wouldn’t rewatch it tonight.
The crowd outside the concert hall had gathered fast, faster than she expected.
“Miss Hanazono! Miss Hanazono, a picture, please!”
Shizuma turned with a trained smile, just in time to be blinded by the flash. Damn. She blinked, disoriented. Now she understood why celebrities always wore sunglasses.
“You hear that? Shutter clicks,” her agent said as he guided her through the door. “That’s the sound of your stardom being born.”
“It’s the sound of my corneas dying,” she muttered, squinting at the fading shadows.
He chuckled. “You could at least pretend to be dazzled.”
“I am. Internally. Very quietly.”
He grinned. Her modesty was both baffling and endearing. In his roster of ambitious talents, Shizuma was the outlier. She didn’t need the money, didn’t want the fame. She wasn’t here to conquer stages. She just wanted to play.
At first, he thought it was an act. The aloof genius. The reluctant prodigy. But six months in, she was still turning down world-class halls and prestige venues in favor of intimate, low-key recitals.
And so here they were: a modest but packed concert room in Belgium. Small stage, good acoustics, limited seating. Just the way she liked it.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Never,” she deadpanned.
They smiled. Their ritual.
“Woo ’em.”
And woo them she did. So thoroughly that, days later, her name made the rounds in mainstream media under a modest headline: Hanazono, the next Horowitz?
She didn’t know what bothered her more, the absurd comparison or the implication she was following in someone else’s footsteps. She didn’t want to be “the next” anything. She just wanted to be herself. She just wanted to play.
Still, the notoriety came. And with it, attention. Some of it unwanted. Some of it… very welcome.
The female attention, at least, was a perk.
But often, her mind drifted. Mid-conversation. Mid-movement. Mid-kiss. She’d find herself staring through the ceiling or into the curve of a stranger’s smile, her thoughts sliding sideways.
“What are you thinking about?”
The question would come, soft and curious. She would blink. Once. Twice. Reality crashing back down like cold water.
“Nothing,” she’d answer. And smile. A practiced one. Smooth, but hollow.
Then she’d lean in, kiss lips, cheeks, neck. Let her hands wander. A distraction. A deflection. Before they could ask again, before they could notice.
They would laugh, smirk, melt into her. But it was the wrong smirk. The wrong laugh. The wrong voice whispering her name. The wrong side dimple. The wrong eyes.
The wrong person.
On the nights Shizuma kept to herself, she sometimes watched the video. Not always. The first few times, she’d searched it for clues. A name, a detail, anything she might have missed. Something she could follow.
But when nothing came of it, she stopped searching. Let it be what it was: a moment.
A beautiful moment.
A lost opportunity.
-0-
“I’m not doing it. I refuse.”
Her agent sighed through his nose. “They asked, Shizuma. Don’t be rude.”
“I’m not rude,” she replied evenly. “I’m declining. Gracefully.”
They’d been going in circles for the last hour, if not the last month. He’d tried coaxing, bribing, outmaneuvering. Nothing worked when she dug her heels in.
He tugged at the lapels of his suit, his usual tell. She barely refrained from smirking. That twitch had become more frequent lately. She couldn’t bring herself to feel bad about it. At the end of the day, the decision was hers. They both knew it.
“I’m not going to force you,” he said finally.
Shizuma scoffed. “You say that every time.”
He smiled. “Because one day it might work. You do realize you can’t dodge interviews forever, right?”
She knew. There was only so long the press would accept her curated mystery, before shyness turned into arrogance, and restraint became an attitude problem. Before they decided she wasn’t the quiet enigma but the spoiled, rich girl born with a Steinway and a silver spoon.
The dyke with gold fingers.
The thought made her snicker. Her agent raised a brow.
“Nothing,” she waved him off. “I get it. I’ll think about it.”
His shoulders sagged with relief. “Good. So we—”
“But not with them.”
He gave her a look. “Fine. You choose. But it’s happening.”
“Deal.” She grinned, all teeth, and held out her hand. They shook on it like kids promising to share a secret.
To be fair… they’d never agreed on when.
So what if it took her a whole year to agree to the interview? It still counted. Shizuma wasn’t responsible for his ulcer. Or his passive-aggressive calendar reminders. She had given him a vintage bottle of Pétrus, 1982. That should’ve covered the damage.
The interview came, eventually.
They asked about her childhood. About piano. About boarding school. Her stylist. Her family. Her time at the Royal College. Her friends. Her personality. Her music.
And, of course, her love life.
She tilted her head at the journalist, giving them the most refined look of polite skepticism she could summon.
“We like to understand what drives our artists,” they explained.
Fair enough.
Still, the question made something in her shoulders tighten, just slightly. A shift of posture. A flick of breath she couldn’t quite smooth away.
A face flickered behind her eyes. Just a flash. Just a ghost.
“I don’t really have the time to think about it,” she replied at last.
Self-deprecating. Vague. True enough.
What did they expect? A grand confession in a chapel packed to the brim?
Been there. Done that.
No shame, never shame. But she wasn’t going to offer herself up for public digestion. Not the grief of her first serious girlfriend. Not the disastrous implosion of her second. And definitely not the woman she had met once and still couldn’t stop remembering two years later.
Not to strangers.
Not even to friends.
Except Miyuki.
Miyuki knew. And Miyuki never judged her for it.
The journalists seemed content with her answer, or well-trained enough to pretend. It took them three weeks to package everything into a glossy editorial with the least imaginative headline she could’ve guessed:
Elusive Hanazono.
She could already hear Miyuki laughing from miles away. Chikaru, too. And Nagisa. And Tamao. And probably half of Astraea, all the way up the hill. Even the sister, bless her soul.
Despite the tragic title, the piece was… fine. They’d painted her as a free-spirited pianist with volcanic intensity, fluent in four languages, descended from Japanese nobility, prone to melancholy, and fond of gardening.
In other words: boring.
Shizuma could live with that.
If she was going to stand out, it would be because of her music, nothing else. If people recognized her, so be it. She wasn’t hiding. She wasn’t chasing.
And maybe, just maybe, something good could come out of it.
Perchance Encounter - A Strawberry Panic fanfiction
Am I writing fanfic for a 20+ year old anime with a fandom dating back from when FF.net was the fanfiction graal for all writers?
Why, yes I am.
No, it's not Eye of the Beholder, no I haven't forgotten about it, trust me. It won't let me forget about it.
But this? This is more than fifteen years old. Yes, you heard (or read) right. Fifteen. Years. More than.
I have 250 000 words worth of world-building of this, written in the span of 10 years. I'm just scratching the surface.
I had the itch to revisit this universe - with a more adult eye, hopefully a better English, and the means to do research on anything related to the classical world (and I'll still get things wrong so don't come at me too hard, okay?).
If you're familiar with the source material, don't tell me. I don't need to know - a heads up that I have moved Astrae Hill to England because I can't be bothered with anime logic.
If you've already read it (or its much larger bigger sister) when it was posted on FF back in the days, don't tell me. I really don't need to know. This is already mortifying.
Yes, I kept Shizuma's hair silver. Sue me.
For the curious souls who'd like to read: it's fandom-blind friendly.
And the story is complete. I'll post the rest later, maybe. If I don't delete the whole thing.
Perchance Encounter - Chapter 1
Words: 1595
Pairing: Shizuma Hanazono/Original Female Character
Setting: Takes place after the events of the anime Strawberry Panic! Shizuma is twenty five.
Voices filled the station in a low, buzzing swell, like the vibration of a string section warming up. It rose above Shizuma’s head and settled into the bones of her skull, dull and persistent. She shifted in the rigid lounge chair for the fifth time, the molded plastic still jabbing between her shoulder blades like an insult.
The book in her lap wasn’t helping. Her eyes moved across the words, but the meaning slipped off them like oil. Her patience had frayed three pages ago.
Then came the voice overhead.
“Due to unforeseen circumstances, Eurostar train number eighty-nine-five-thirty-two to London, initially scheduled for departure at four thirty p.m.—”
A hush. Heads lifted in perfect unison. Even the child crying nearby paused, like the entire hall inhaled.
“—has been delayed by one hour and fifty-five minutes.”
Groans. Swearing in three different languages. Phones reappeared like weapons unsheathed. A wave of silent resignation swept through the terminal. Shizuma, for her part, rolled her eyes, quietly, but with commitment. Saint Miatre’s polish could take a hike.
Wonderful.
She had booked the train specifically to avoid the airline strikes. This strike was not supposed to affect international lines. Apparently, “unforeseen circumstances” was France’s velvet-gloved way of flipping everyone off.
And she couldn’t postpone. Her recording session in London was scheduled for the next morning. One hour and fifty-five minutes of her life now dangled, useless, between delay and duty.
Shizuma tried again with the book, then gave up, snapping it shut with a thud. Rising, she gave a polite nod to an elderly couple eyeing her seat and slipped away, tote bag slung across one shoulder.
Two hours to kill.
She wasn’t hungry. The smell of burnt espresso from Paul café made her wince. Rain blurred the glass outside, so much for fresh air. As she passed a tucked-away corner, Shizuma’s eyes landed on the upright piano stationed near the wall.
She stopped.
Turned.
Bingo.
It wasn’t a Steinway. It was likely out of tune, but it was a piano. And she could do something with that.
She set her bag on the bench beside her, ran her fingers lightly over the keys, testing. The action was shallow, the tone a little tinny, but it would do. A few people glanced her way, curious. Shizuma ignored them.
This wasn’t a performance. It was passing time.
She started slow, notes dripped like water through leaves, hesitant and soft. Something minor. Something Chopin. Her eyes closed without permission.
Within seconds, her fingers were no longer interpreting, they were remembering. Chopin always did this. He slipped into her bones and played her back to herself. Schumann had left her emotionally dehydrated after weeks of rehearsal. But Chopin? He never asked for more than she could give.
The station softened around her. Even the buzz of conversations quieted to a respectful murmur. A few passengers stopped nearby. Some filmed. She ignored them.
The final note rang out like a breath caught in the throat. Shizuma held it. Then released. It took several seconds before a quiet, almost confidential applause followed.
She offered a small smile, checked her watch.
“Excuse me…?” the voice came from her left. She turned.
A woman in her mid-twenties stood just beyond the curve of the piano, holding a violin case, her smile gently lopsided. Her eyes were warm, a shifting shade between amber and dominant blue.
“Would you mind if I played with you?”
Shizuma stared.
She’s beautiful.
“Yes,” she said.
The stranger’s smile faltered.
“I mean—no.” She coughed, flustered, and switched to French, “No, I don’t mind. Please, go ahead.”
The woman’s smile returned with a knowing tilt. She crouched to open her case.
Yes. Please.
It had been a while since anyone had short-circuited her like this. Not since Nagisa. Not since gentle laughter and almost-goodbyes in the dorms. Nagisa had ended things cleanly before her graduation; two lives, two directions. They’d stayed friends. Shizuma wasn’t bitter. Really.
Nagisa was somewhere with Tamao now, building a life out of inside jokes and mutual chaos. And that was fine.
More than fine.
Besides, after Nagisa came freedom. There had been flings, free of grief this time. Brief entanglements. Nothing heavy. Nothing haunting. She was done with ghosts.
Now, this stranger with her violin and her sharp smile was brushing the edge of something else entirely.
“Ready?” the woman asked, snapping her shoulder rest into place. Her eyes sparkled.
Shizuma nodded, adjusting her posture.
“Any preferences?”
Yes. You. Please.
She smirked. “Classical?”
“Shocking,” the violinist teased. “How about… classical with a twist?”
“A twist?”
“Improvise. You start, I’ll follow.”
Shizuma blinked. Improvisation with a stranger? That could be a disaster.
The woman tilted her head, confidence gleaming like a challenge. “What? Afraid I can’t keep up?”
Shizuma laughed under her breath, eyes still on the keys. “Fine.”
She paused for a moment, searching her memory like a library shelf. Thousands of scores, studied and stored since she was four, jostled for attention. And then, she found it. A memory. A game. Something she used to play at the Royal College with her classmates during long rehearsals and lazy afternoons. They called it “twenty questions for classical nerds.”
Simple premise : answer two questions using only music. It was ridiculous. And brilliant.
Her two questions hadn’t been especially memorable at the time. Her song to wake up to. Debussy’s Rêverie, obviously.
And, her go-to piece she’d play to set the mood. Shizuma smirked, throwing a quick glance at the stranger standing next to her.
Let’s see if you can dance.
Her fingers hit the keys in a bold burst, rapid and teasing, the sound sharp enough to make the violinist flinch slightly.
Classical with a twist?
Fine. She could play that game. The overture spilled out with deliberate swagger, distorted enough to be puzzling, familiar enough to spark memory.
They locked eyes. The other woman’s lips curved in recognition.
Shizuma shifted her hands and replayed the phrase, less twisted this time, carving a path wide enough to be followed. And follow, the violin did.
What began as an improvised echo quickly turned into a conversation. Shizuma’s phrases blooming open, the violin answering with crisp, bold counterpoints. They traded rhythm, handed melody back and forth like dancers sharing the same floor but leading at different turns. It wasn’t perfect. That was the thrill.
Push and pull. Call and response.
A brief flicker of eye contact mid-run felt almost like a dare.
The woman’s playing was precise but alive, full of instinct. She leaned into her bow with grace, then pulled back just slightly, as if coaxing the next phrase into existence. Her wrist flicked lightly on a high trill, sharp, clean, utterly confident.
Shizuma’s smile widened. She’s good.
The tempo surged. For a moment, it was breathless; something between a chase and a courtship. A line drawn in music and crossed willingly.
By the time the phrase began to dissolve into a natural close, a crowd had gathered again. Phones out. Faces lifted. The applause came almost before the last note fell.
Shizuma let her hands slide off the keys with an exhale. She turned on the bench and dipped her head in a half-bow, laughing softly. The violinist scratched her cheek, visibly flushed.
“Thank you for humoring me,” the woman said as the crowd’s noise ebbed.
“Thank you for joining.”
Shizuma wanted to say more, something clever or sincere, but the overhead chime interrupted.
“TGV number sixteen-eight-forty-two bound for Marseille–Saint-Charles has entered the station. Platform E.”
The woman flinched. “Ah. That’s me.” She crouched quickly, slipping her violin back into its case.
Shizuma stood, blinking like she’d surfaced from underwater. Trains. Departures. Right.
The knot in her chest returned, quiet and unwelcome.
The woman straightened and offered her hand. “I hope yours comes soon.”
Shizuma checked her watch. “Twenty minutes,” she said, almost surprised. “Hopefully.”
“Hopefully,” the other echoed, with a knowing smile.
The surrounding crowd had begun to dissolve. Passengers peeled off toward platforms or phones. The mood had shifted back to transit. They stood in it for a breath longer, watching the tide of movement sweep through the terminal.
“You should go,” Shizuma said gently, nodding toward the chaos.
The woman’s eyes flicked to hers again. “Right. Yes.” She smiled, no teeth this time. Just a small tilt of the lips and a deepening of the dimple on her cheek.
Shizuma hadn’t noticed that before.
Cute.
Yes, please.
“Safe travels,” they said at the same time.
They laughed quietly.
“So…” The violinist glanced down, then up. “Goodbye. And thank you again.”
Shizuma nodded. “Good luck.” She gestured toward the crowd, grimacing. “Try not to die.”
That earned her a proper laugh.
“Promise.”
She winked, then disappeared into the current of people. Shizuma watched her vanish. For a second, she almost stepped forward. Said something. Stopped her.
But the moment passed.
She turned and made her way back to the lounge. Folded her coat beside her. Sat, and breathed.
Her fingers tingled. Still remembering. Still playing.
She hadn’t felt that kind of spark in years, not even on a concert stage. Not like this. Not with someone she didn’t even know.
She smiled, a quiet, private thing.
Chance encounter, she thought. Sweet. Harmless. Fun.
Shizuma didn’t believe in fate. Not really. Not after Kaori. Fate had teeth.
But maybe, just maybe, that duet had been a small mercy. A karmic echo.
Still.
Her smile wavered.
They hadn’t exchanged names.
Not even first names.
She hadn’t thought to ask, hadn’t thought she’d need to. And now…
You know your country has hit rock bottom when even the modern version of Templars (Freemasonry) are doing an official press release to encourage the population to vote against the far right party.
No, I'm not dead. However, I do have a new computer, and I've been sitting behind my screen long enough to get a little itch and start stringing words and sentences together again (unemployement will do that to you :D).
I'm revisiting EOTB's next chapter, we'll see where that goes.
snowghoul
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prguitarman
