Act 4: Rain stops, good-bye
He’s up next. It feels like it’s been ages since he’s done a live performance, even though it’s been more like… A week. But a week can feel like an eternity in their situation. Naomichi missed his brother. He missed his home. People died here, and his wish to see his family again was looking more and more unrealistic.
For his act, the musician… Didn’t require anything more. No microphone, other instruments… Not even a spiffy outfit to really sell it. Maybe it’s arrogance. The only audience he really has is his supposed classmates, most of whom he doesn’t really consider “friends”. Maybe he thought he was too good to ask for anything to improve his act from the AI.
“I dedicate this next performance… To my brother.”
Or maybe he just wanted to keep his music pure.
Naomichi sat at the grand piano bench and closed his eyes. Was he just going to play? There weren’t speakers or a microphone nearby to let his voice be heard over the keys. It seemed like an awfully simple performance for someone like him–someone who could sing and play an instrument without even thinking.
That is, until he actually started.
“‘rain stops, good-bye’.”
His fingers moved over the keys smoothly and gracefully. Sometimes they’d press a bit harder as the emotions in the song became passionate, and ease off to elicit gentler tones. He’d occasionally take time between notes, spaces to let the piano echo and “breathe”. There was no consistent rhythm, but there was movement. Life. Nothing like a mechanical tune that stayed the same throughout–those boring mandatory school performances that no one wanted to be there for.
His face stayed mostly the same except for the occasional furrow of the brow, or opening of his eyes–deep and melancholy. His lips would part and close in small breaths at every pause. He’d sway a bit as he played, then tense up as his volume crescendoed.
For the entire piece, Naomichi seemed like a different person. Or maybe even hardly a person. It was like he was the music. Like every fibre of his being was dedicated to making that piano sing. Like every single change in his body was decided by his playing–not the other way around.
When he finished, he did not move for a few seconds. His chest rose and fell as he recovered his breath. Then, he opened his eyes again, finally looking to his peers–breaking the intimate connection between piano and him. He stood up and bowed, and without another word, strode off the podium back to his place among the students.
