Takuto-san acted the same as he did even over the phone.
“So I’ve tracked down the company that released Makita Shun’s album. I can probably get in contact with them myself, but I think it would be better if you did, Takuto-san.”
“And why should I do that? Aren’t you the one who wanted to use the song as a sound source? Do it yourself.“
Why was he still acting like that? Ugh, seriously, this guy was so needlessly stubborn.
Thankfully, since I couldn’t see his face over a phone call, I wasn’t scared no matter how displeased he sounded… which was why I decided to ask him outright.
“Is it that awkward for you to just go and talk to Makita-san?”
Takuto-san stayed quiet for a time.
“No, it’s not that… Just… I just don’t want to talk. There’s nothing to talk about anyway, and I don’t have the right to talk to him in the first place. That’s all it is.“
“Was the fight you had really that bad?”
As I continued my questioning, I couldn’t help but feel I might’ve been going overboard.
Still, we were talking about throwing a CD that was pretty much ready for release and crashing a debut release… There was no way to spin that kind of break-up positively, and yet, here was Takuto-san, being so stubborn about it all that I couldn’t help but prod him for more details.
“It wasn’t exactly a fight. All I did was tell ’em I quit, and then I left. Simple as that.“
“Isn’t there more you want to talk about though? After all that, I mean.”
“There isn’t.”
“But neither of you even talked to each other about what you were unhappy with about the song, right?”
“There wasn’t anything I was unhappy with.”
Okay, like, what was this guy’s problem?
“You’ve listened to it, and you even used it as a backing track, so you of all people should understand where I’m coming from. And what more is there to say? The arrangement wasn’t bad, and the parts he added on were bright and lively.”
“Yeah, I know.”
It was like a titanic clash between two geniuses, and it was a miracle that the resulting song hadn’t been completely ruined as a result.
“It would’ve been better if the song turned out crappy, ’cause that would’ve meant I made a mistake in the decision-making. But that guy… he was the real deal.”
“So was it true that you… decided on a producer yourself?”
“You could say that. What happened was, around when we were having the talks about doing some recording, I listened to thousands of different Japanese albums. Most of them were pretty trash, I have to say, but there was one among what I listened to that I felt I could entrust my song to.”
So their encounter hadn’t been a little miracle but rather the result of laboriously sifting through mud to find the faint light of success.
“It was when we actually started working together that I finally understood the person with whom I was working… and the end result? A song that wasn’t my song, but his. I knew right then that none of it was for me, and that I had two choices right in front of me: either I stopped making records or I stopped being me.”
I knew that it was precisely because he was like this – a hopelessly awkward guy – that the music he created was such beautiful fragmented sounds.
Though, I really wished common sense would get through or at least stick to him.
“But you haven’t met each other in so long — shouldn’t any ill will have disappeared by now?”
“The issue isn’t so simple and easy that something as basic as time would solve it. What’d you take me for?”
That was an interesting way to put it.
And I found myself empathizing better and better with this guy named Kuboi Takuto.
I wondered; did the producer feel just as strongly about the song as Takuto-san? I believed so; nothing else would explain the amount of effort that went into the kind of arrangement he had added to the song — all without Takuto-san’s consent. It was like observing a beautiful but untameable beast; no one could communicate with it, but neither could anyone abandon it.
“So what you’re saying…”
I felt a pang of anxiety; I wanted my words to really reach him, so I paused to moisten my lips before continuing.
“..is that as long as the song gets finished, nothing else matters. Am I wrong?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say, from the very beginning.”
Yeah, no, you hadn’t said that at all. In fact, your words were so random and abrasive that I had to fill in the missing parts on my own to make sense of it all…
“Okay, but this is the song you said you gave up on. Why do you suddenly want to see it finished now?”
“Because I couldn’t do anything for it back then. But I’ve got you now, don’t I?”
And with that, the call suddenly ended.
I let myself sink deep into my chair. My gaze wandered about the room, going around until my sense of reality returned. The time was… only eight o’clock in the evening. That phone call felt like it had gone on throughout the night.
The final words Takuto-san had said continued to tumble about in my head, like quiet weeping that drifted through the air.
He ‘had me now’, was it?
Who does he think he is? What did he even know about me? He hasn’t done anything except listen to a song I uploaded to the internet.
Yeah, that’s all it was: just listening to a song.
I took out my laptop, opened my stock music folder, and played that song — the one I set to private. the voices of Takuto-san, my own, and Makita Shun – whom I’ve never met – seemed to mix together before bursting against the surface of my mind.
That was our entire world. We didn’t need anything else.
My phone began to ring.
“Hello, is this Murase-san? This is Shiraishi calling. I believe this is the first time we are communicating over the phone.”
The caller was a woman with a refreshing voice. But who was Shiraishi? It took a moment before I remembered — this was Kaya’s manager. We’d only talked through emails before, but I hadn’t expected the manager to be a woman… Not that I’d noticed her given name in the first place.
“I called to talk about the record company that manages Makita Shun.”
“Oh, thank you very much for looking into it!”
“And so, Murase-san, are you available this weekend?”
“…What?”
*
I met up with Shiraishi-san in front of Ueno Station’s ticket gate at 10 AM on a Saturday morning.
She looked to be in her thirties and wore a bright beige peacoat and gray pantsuit that gave her a sophisticated look, and, despite her short hair and narrow-rimmed glasses, she didn’t seem to be an overly strict person.
It hadn’t taken long for her to spot me.
“Thank you very much for taking the time to come out today, Murase-san.”
“N-no, not at all. In fact, I should be thanking you for your time, and I apologize for asking you to come with me for this; I wasn’t sure I could handle everything by myself to begin with.”
I felt more guilty than usual knowing Shiraishi-san was spending her time to help and even accompany me on this personal errand of mine. Still, despite my words, she simply shook her head.
“Not to worry, as there is something you can help me with as well, soon enough — things with regard to Kaya-chan in fact, Murase-san. Since this trip will take some time, it was simply convenient for me to go with you so we could have this talk along the way.
“That’s… um, yeah, o-of course…”
Since our trip would take about two-and-a-half hours, and we would be taking the Shinkansen, a local train, and even a bus transfer, there really would be plenty of time for us to talk.
“So to reiterate, my primary job is to support and protect Kaya-chan – even from her own parents if necessary. However, as much as I would like to respect the decisions she makes, she is still obligated to follow the contract she has signed with our agency. To that end, I ask that you also respect those terms and conditions.”
We had just settled into our seats at the front of the green car carriage when Shiraishi-san suddenly began lecturing me.
“Umm, so does that mean she actually isn’t allowed to play in our band?”
“It isn’t a problem if she wants to participate in those kinds of activities; furthermore, she is also allowed to appear in concerts. However, per her contract, we, the agency, do hold exclusivity rights to her appearances, so the sale of photos and videos of her are expressly forbidden. On my end, I shall be talking to the company in charge of organizing the Christmas live show your band will be participating in — Naked Egg Inc, I believe? That being said, I have also prepared detailed documentation regarding Kaya-chan and playing in your group, Murase-san. I ask that you read it over thoroughly when you have an opportunity.”
Shiraishi-san had everything prepared so well. All I could do was accept the papers she handed over; I could feel my eyes swim as I skimmed over the six sheets of A4-sized paper. I was starting to understand what a rough time celebrities had…
“Also, regarding the other members of your band, including yourself, I imagine you all will soon experience similiar problems, if not after more public appearances and performances. My advice to you, in expectation of that time, would be to sign with an agency so as to properly manage your various rights.”
“That… um, sounds like a good idea. Right.”
“There is another thing I would like to ask, speaking as Kaya-chan’s manager: am I correct to assume the two of you are in a relationship with one another?”
“We’re not in any kind of relationship! Not one bit!”
“Rest assured, Murase-san, I do not intend to have you punished, to break up your relationship, or even to hold a press conference admitting your guilt. Rather, this is my way of taking into account factors that could possibly affect Kaya-chan’s future activities. I apologize if this seems excessive, but not too long ago, Kaya-chan told me you did something that was practically like confessing your love to her — I just need to be sure, of course.”
“It was just to prove a point — probably! I promise there wasn’t any deeper meaning to it!”
Her interrogation dug into me throughout the entire Shinkansen ride. There was no escape nor relief for me…
Eventually we arrived at Kouriyama Station, but by then I was visibly unsteady on my feet.
After disembarking, we caught a local train, rode for three more stops, and then transferred to a bus that drove into the mountains. Our eventual stop was by a rice terrace along a gentle slope that neighbored a narrow river.
On occasion, bush robins would descend on the empty paddies, pecking at discarded rice husks. Above us, the sky spanned a freezing blue; off in the distance, thin, unmoving clouds seemed to drape over the low ridgeline. No matter what I looked at, even the smoky white breath I exhaled, it seemed the winter winds scattered colors every which way.
We followed the river on foot, walking for some time before a solitary, two-story house appeared in sight. Shiraishi-san checked her phone, comparing it to something on screen before nodding in satisfaction.
As we drew closer, I spotted a man hosing down an old-style minivan, atop a gravel driveway. He seemed to notice us approaching because he suddenly turned to face us; confusion colored his, most likely from seeing the odd combination that was Shiraishi-san and myself.
“Good day. My name is Shiraishi; I believe we spoke over the phone the other day?”
When he saw that Shiraishi had lowered her head in a bow, the man’s face broke out in a happy grin.
“Ohh! Thank you for coming all the way out here. It is very nice to meet you; I am Makita.”
In my mind, I superimposed the photo of Makita Shun I saw on the internet with the face of the man in front of me. Judging by the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth, the passage of time hasn’t been very kind to him.
Makita-san nonetheless urged us over, leading us through the front entrance and calling toward the stairs that led to the second floor.
“Mother! You there..? Hmm, guess not.”
He took off his shoes and walked ahead before turning around with an apologetic expression on his face.
“I’m sorry, but I think she’s out at the moment, so for now, you’ll have to excuse me for not being a very good host.”
He led us onward and into the living room. The furniture – the table and chairs, the bamboo cutain that led to the kitchen, the cabinet with many drawers – all looked old and well-worn, yet for some reason, seeing it all put me at ease. There was a TV and a phone, but both seemed out of place seeing how new they looked.
After we sat down, Makita-san quickly prepared and served tea to us while Shiraishi-san brought out a bag of sweets — right, gifts. I hadn’t thought to bring one myself, so it was a good thing I thought to bring along a properly functioning member of society.
“So, um, I came here today because… I wanted to apologize in person for using a sound source without permission.”
I gave a deep bow to Makita-san, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see him give back a troubled smile.
“No, no, it is quite all right. It hasn’t caused us any trouble at all.”
When I lifted my head, I saw a distant look come over his eyes; the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes seemed so much more prominent and really showed his age.
“Speaking of that recording, they had told me to send it to the company. I didn’t know how to do that, so I asked an acquaintance, and, well, it somehow ended up on the internet, and now anyone can listen to it? I must also apologize for having made that mistake; it may be deleted now, but I’m sure it caused some trouble nonetheless. Still, it makes me happy knowing youngsters interested in music, such as yourself, have a use for it. And Kuboi… Takuto-san, was it? I think I remember him. I haven’t heard about him in quite sometime, but it is good to know that he seems to be doing well.”
I wasn’t sure what I should say to add to the conversation. Thankfully, Shiraishi-san spoke up; it seemed like she sensed our conversation was about to grind to a halt otherwise.
“And Shun-san… had always been here, since then?”
Makita-san’s gaze lowered in loneliness.
“That is correct — ever since the sick leave from work.”
“Is that right…”
“But the instruments, the computer stuff, it’s all here. Music can be made anywhere as long as there’s inspiration, so really, it doesn’t feel like anything has changed from before the break.”
Makita-san stood from his seat and gestured down the hallway.
“Since you troubled yourself coming all this way, why not have a look at the room? It isn’t every day we get a musician for a guest, so it would be nice to be able to show the room off…”
Makita-san carefully made his way over to the staircases, leading me and Shiraishi-san carefully up the steep, narrow steps.
We walked down the hallway, eventually stopping at the end and in front of a door to our left; Makita-san pulled it open.
It was a six-tatami-mat-sized traditional-style room, filled with many guitars and basses, a three-tiered keyboard stand, a number of amps, and a book case full of sheet music. The sharp tang of metal and electricity filled the room; it was like the smell had accumulated over a long time.
As I stepped into the room, a burning sense of nostalgia assaulted me; I may have been entering a stranger’s room for the first time, but it felt like something familiar was washing over me.
There was a sky-blue Telecaster over here, a twilight-colored Stratocaster over there, a worn Epiphone Casino whose paint was peeling. I approached the keyboard on its stand to find there wasn’t a speck of dust on it; someone was regularly, meticulously cleaning it. On the bookshelf, the sheet music was sorted in alphabetical order, the same way I had it — there was AC/DC, Aerosmith, Alice in Chains…
“And, well… I still can’t bring myself to throw any of it away…”
Over by the entrance, Makita-san seemed to have said something. Shiraishi-san as well hadn’t entered the room; she gave no indication of wanting to come in and instead chose to wait out in the hallway. It really was just me alone in the room, breathing in the silent music that filled the room.
Makita-san eventually entered the room as well.
He moved over to the keyboard stand, withdrawing something out of the clear case drawer underneath it, before coming over to hand me what he had retrieved.
It was a USB flash drive — four of them, in fact.
“I believe everything should be in these — every song, including all the half-finished ones and old ones.”
I found myself blinking rapidly in conclusion after hearing Makita-san’s words.
“Please use these however you like.”
“Are you… sure? Aren’t these really important –“
“It will be all right.”
Makita-san interrupted me, wearing a gentle smile on his face.
“After all, music is nothing if it has no listeners.”
Shiraishi-san spoke not a single word on either the bus or the train ride back to the station. I was grateful for her discretion.
It was after, when we had boarded the Shinkansen and taken our seats, that Shiraishi-san retrieved an ultrathin laptop and placed it on my lap.
“I also have earphones if you need them. I imagine you wanted to check the contents of what you received as soon as possible.”
Shiraishi-san sure was attentive, though I suppose that was the kind of person it took to be the manager of a celebrity…
I took the proffered earphones and looked through each flash drive. Not only did I find the pre-mix data for the one song but also hundreds, thousands of different files packed inside each device — there were text files with just one-liner ideas or fragments of lyrics, recordings of casual guitar riffs, rhythm tracks that used placeholder vocals, draft sketches of what appeared to be four-part orchestral arrangements, and even songs that were practically finished.
It was like these four little drives contained a little universe among them…
I gently cupped over my ears, pressing against the earphones as I sank into the seat’s backrest and closed my eyes. I let my mind dive deep into Makita Shun’s musical world.
And until Shiraishi-san shook my shoulders at the end of the train ride, I drifted free among those stars.
*
My reunion with Takuto-san came on a weekend two weeks before Christmas.
“Why’re we meeting at a studio? And why’d you want me bring my guitar?”
He was already complaining from the moment we met up.
“Didn’t you also have me come to a studio the first time we met, Takuto-san?”
He scowled at my retort.
Still, the fact that he did show up, with his guitar even, made it obvious to me that he was pure and honest guy at heart. And, woah, it wasn’t just any guitar he brought with him but a Taylor 912ce; would he let me touch it? Actually, would he let me try playing on it, even just a little? Oh, oops, that wasn’t why I had him come all the way here; I shouldn’t waste his time like this. He might’ve been really busy, and I heard he traveled between here and England often; he might even be returning soon.
“So, yeah, uh, the other tracks are already done. The only things we’re missing are the vocals and guitar from the two of us, Takuto-san.”
“Excuse me? You wanna tell me exactly what you’re suddenly trying to pull here?”
“It’s not sudden at all. You said it yourself last time: we’re re-recording that song.”
“And there’s a certain order you should be doing these kinds of things in! Did you even meet with Makita-san yet?”
“I did, and I got permission to use not just the song but also its pre-mix. All I need now is the chorus, and I can handle the res–“
“So what did Makita-san say?”
And remind me again, who was it that said they had nothing to talk about with him? I wanted to tease him about it, but I held myself back; I couldn’t afford to waste anytime since I’d rented a really expensive studio today. I wanted to get this all done as soon as possible.
“We can talk about that later. Let’s just get to recording. And I mean, you did the same thing during our first meeting – having me play with you in a session – right? Just think of it as a little payback.”
Takuto-san looked like he still had something he wanted to say, but I began operating the console and laptop. Before long, the sound of a heavy rhythm track with strings and Makita Shun’s clear vocals began to fill the control room.
Takuto-san seemed to swallow the words he still had for me, and then I paused the track.
“So let’s start with the guitar part.”
I was already extremely nervous on the inside, but I forced myself to speak in a confident tone.
Takuto-san sat quietly, his face still looking sullen, but before long, he carried his guitar with him into the recording booth. I let out a sigh of relief.
It’s often said that musicians have an incomparable level of focus during recordings. This seemed especially true now, with the quality of Takuto-san’s performance being at a completely different level compared to what he did for the sound source. Somehow, he even had the leeway to tell me where I should adjust the chorus.
“It’s not a matter of figuring out whether your voice or Makita-san’s voice should be the main one. Your voices should be blending together; your high notes should sing, and your low notes should roar. This should be possible since you’re the one singing.”
“I’ll try, but… uh, what about rapping? Should I be rapping over the hook then? Since it’d blend together better if it sounded familiar?”
But when I tried, my rapping met with harsh criticism.
“Nobody’s gonna wanna hear that. You gotta treat it like playing a percussion; don’t think too hard about the lyrics, especially the prepositions and articles — you can just click your tongue for those. And you need to hit the accents.”
I didn’t have the money to spend on hiring an engineer, so we handled the entire recording between just the two of us — one would play for the recording while the other operated the console. I was relieved that Takuto-san knew how to use the recording equipment, but at the same time, he was strict when it came to the finer details. His demands continued to escalate, getting to a point where it was hard to tell which one of us was supposed to be leading the recording.
But it started to feel like my ideas were taking perfect shapes and matching the sounds exactly… It was all so satisfying.
Finally, after three hours of non-stop singing, Takuto-san finally approved.
Despite it being winter, the heater in the studio was turned off, and I had stripped down to my bottom layer of a single T-shirt. I returned to the control room and downed a third bottle of water.
“You gonna connect the takes here?”
“Uh, y-yeah, I guess I will… Just… give me a moment…”
I stopped to catch my breath before moving over to the computer. I picked out the best recordings among the takes we had and put them together into a single track. That being said, no matter which recordings I listened to, Takuto-san’s first takes were always the best ones with a perfect balance of harsh and gentle; he must’ve been the kind of person that focused on the moment of inspiration. I was different; for me, there were parts I did better or worse, so I had to stitch the good parts together to stabilize the weaker parts. As for Makita Shun, I had multiple tracks of his chorus, so I connected those where I could.
After making adjustments according to Takuto-san’s input, I put the finishing touches on the approved takes before taking a ten minute break. Listening to the same song over and over for so long had worn down my senses, and I could hardly tell good from bad at this point. I stepped out of the building and took in the evening breeze, watching cars pass along the road and listening to the sounds of their engines and a faraway train.
It was only after my head and body cooled down that I returned inside to the studio.
“You doing the mixdown too?”
“I will. Just a temp one though.”
I put together the separate sounds, balancing their volumes and adjusting their spatial arrangements, and compiled everything into a single stereo source. The drums came from a sampled pattern, the bass and keyboard came from me, and the guitar came from Takuto-san. Then, on top of it all were the vocals.
There was no doubting this song was the product of three people: Takuto-san, myself, and Makita Shun.
The mix was finally complete. I set the output to the control room speakers and played the finished song.
A sharp guitar stroke suddenly sliced into my brain, the same brain that was worn out from the tedious, repetitive recording work.
Takuto-san planted himself into the chair beside me, listening carefully to the music even as he stared into the now vacant booth.
When the rapping began, rising like bubbles up from the bottom of an ocean, Takuto-san slowly closed his eyes.
Why was it like this? I thought to myself.
The voice was sharp and aggressive, but when its words began repeating, the voice sounded more like a crying child. As it left a dull ache in my chest, Makita Shun’s falsetto began, falling like gentle rain parting dark clouds. And then my voice arrived, becoming a rainbow bridge to connect the two previous voices that were like heaven and earth.
It tried to connect…
…and connect, it did.
It was a song I’d breathed into the mic tens of times; I knew it so well by now I was sick of it, and yet here I was happily humming along.
The chorus began to rise like steps; while my voice quickened its pace and climbed, Takuto-san’s voice was like a whispering sob that plodded up beside mine, and our voices pulled the voice of Makita Shun up and along. It all melted together, blending in a way that let it all rise to greater heights by supporting, pulling one another up until it became an indistinguishable sum of its parts. Everything had connected together; the boundary between azure and gold had disappeared.
The fade-out of an endless refrain marked the end of this four-minute-forty-second song. I’d wanted to have it go on forever, to listen to it forever, so this was the only appropriate way to bring the song to an end.
But even as the sounds died down, becoming a quiet sizzle of noise, Takuto-san continued keeping his eyes closed. I turned my gaze down to the laptop, awaiting his words.
“It’s taken a long time…”
When Takuto-san eventually spoke, it was in a whisper.
“It’s been so many years, and now it’s finished.”
I nodded.
I should be happy enough and quietly accept how Takuto-san had recognized my work. But as I kept telling myself that, the thought wouldn’t stick; I could feel how my emotions were overflowing.
“So now that that’s done, tell me about Makita-san. How’s he doing? He say anything to you? Since you got his permission and all. And where’s he living now? Is he still in the same line of work?”
I carefully shut the laptop closed; its screen had felt much too bright.
“Makita Shun-san… he’s…”
I choked on my words as I spoke and had to gesture toward the laptop.
Or, more precisdely, I was gesturing at the USB drive that was still plugged into the laptop.
“…he’s here. With us.”
I could feel a heated gaze bore into my cheek. It wasn’t until a long moment later than Takuto-san’s words registered in my mind.
“What’re you talking about?”
Were we really so far apart right now that sound took that long to cross over? Or maybe he had taken the time to think about what I had said?
For me, on the other hand, there was nothing left to think about. All I had to do now was tell Takuto-san everything.
“Last week, I visited Makita-san’s home. I met his father there, listened to his story, and received these USB drives with all this song data. Before I left, he told me I could use it all however I wanted.”
I raised my face, and Takuto-san’s clear eyes were there to meet gaze.
“Makita Shun-san… had passed away, last year, in the summer.
It felt as though my words took even longer swimming through the thick air to reach Takuto-san.
His faintly purple lips quavered almost imperceptibly.
“No way… That can’t be true…”
The words that spilled out were like droplets creating ripples.
“What about the news? If it really happened, there should’ve been a story about it.”
I slowly shook my head.
“It’s like you said: Makita Shun-san never really put himself out there. He’d been sick for a long time, and it was the reason why he’d been semi-retired… And his funeral, only his family and a few acquaintances were in attendance…”
I ran my finger along the edges of the USB drive.
“As for how the sound source went on the internet, his father wanted to use it for the funeral, but… because he wasn’t very familiar with how it all worked, the file was uploaded to a video site instead of the funeral company. He must have thought it was a file hosting site.”
And that had led to me finding it by chance.
And it had brought me first to Takuto-san and then to Makita Shun.
“Which is why he, why Makita Shun is… all that remains of Makita Shun is all the music that’s in here.”
Takuto-san was expressionless and looking as pale as a faded sheet.
“…Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
There was a trace of emotion in his voice.
It was faint anger — towards me, or maybe towards himself.
Don’t look away, I desperately urged myself. I dug my nails into my knees and resolutely returned Takuto-san’s gaze.
“Because if I had, you wouldn’t have been able to finish this recording, Takuto-san.”
Takuto-san suddenly rose to his feet, knocking over his chair as he reached over to grab me by the collar.
Though my voice was shaky, I continued speaking nonetheless.
“There’s a girl I know. She called me a heartless, music-obssessed idiot. And recently I started thinking maybe she was right. And that’s why we’re here; after listening to all of this, after listening to Shun-san’s voice so many times, I was determined to finish the song. And for that, I needed your guitar, Takuto-san; your guitar and your voice. So I had no choice but to do it like this.”
I couldn’t apologize — not here, not now. All it would do is make me feel better, but that would leave Takuto-san with no outlet for his own emotions.
So I had to be the one to accept them.
Something hot and wet, like boiling water, flowed down onto Takuto-san’s hand, off of my chin. I mustered all my willpower not to look away.
And eventually, the fingers that held my collar loosened.
Without another word, Takuto-san stepped back into the booth, stowed his guitar away, slung the case over his shoulder, and left the studio.
I was now alone in the silent studio.
The lingering echoes of the voice of Makita Shun seemed to fall like metallic dust through the air, prickling against my skin on any little movement.
Before long, the cold caught back up, hitting me all at once, and I retrieved my coat curled in a corner of the room and put it back on.
I opened my laptop once more. Music that had become digital data would never disappear, even if its singer was injured, disabled, or even no longer alive.
But what if there was nobody left to hear it?
The song I’d just finished — it also belonged to Takuto-san, meaning I couldn’t just release it if I didn’t have his permission too.
The parting words of Makita Shun’s father came painfully into mind: music is nothing if it has no listeners.
I had gone all over the place and through trouble, and I’d even ended up hurting Takuto-san… just for a moment of self-satisfaction.
I packed up my belongings and left the studio, then paid the fees and exited the building. The only thing greeting me as I came outside was the night wind of December, mercilessly tearing at my ears.
*
“So what happened with that song, Murase-senpai?”
At studio practice with PNO the next day, Kaya suddenly asked a question.
It seemed a little heartless for her to ask like that… Wait, no, she did know half the story, so I was obligated to let her know how the rest of it went.
“When you say that song, you mean the solo song Murase-kun was looking into?”
“Did the song really belong to Kuboi-something-or-other-san?”
“I mean, you deleted the video and all, right? I’m guessing you didn’t get permission?”
The others immediately jumped in, leaving me no room to avoid talking about it.
And so I began explaining everything, from start to finish. I even told them about how I didn’t reveal Makita Shun had passed away to Takuto-san until we had finished the recording. There was a sharp pain in my chest as I explained it all, but after I finished, my heart felt lighter than before.
I could really be a hopeless, irredeemable person at times…
What surprised me was how the girls reacted.
“Well, um, Murase-senpai… I think it would have been better if I hadn’t asked…”
Kaya withdrew with a soft murmur, retreating to busy herself with the bass amp.
“You should… take a break and go home early today, Makoto-san,” Shizuki carefully said, “We shouldn’t always be putting pressure on you to do everything.”
Even Rinko had similar words to say.
“It would be best if I learned to operate the sequencer myself for the Christmas live, so don’t worry and feel free to leave, Murase-kun.”
The girls prepared for practice as usual despite the awkward atmosphere. I found myself staring blankly at them from the corner where I sat.
“You’re not gonna go home? You’re gonna stay and watch?”
I couldn’t help but answer with what I had in mind to Akane’s question.
“It’s not that, but, uh… I mean, I was expecting you guys to make a joke about it, like call me heartless or like be harsher about it or something.”
Rinko looked offended from my words.
“We would be the heartless ones for saying something like that after hearing your story.”
“Yeah, we know when we should and shouldn’t be making jokes, you know!” Akane added, puffing out her cheeks.
Seeing how worried they were for me, I couldn’t help but feel even more depressed.
“Uh, well, let me, um… let me just take a little time to cool off outside. I’ll be back in a moment.”
“You’re going outside, Makoto-san? When it’s this cold?”
I waved away a flustered Shizuki’s concern and left through the soundproof door.
A cold, unforgiving wind gusted down on me as I exited out onto the streets from the Moon Echo lobby, cutting through my thick duffle coat and chilling my skin. Shivering, I moved over to sit at a tiny space between the building’s foundation and an azalea bush. I could feel the chill of concrete seep in from the denim of my jeans.
The night sky of Shinjuku looked as distant and narrow as ever and the wind smelled of its usual burns and grease. Red, green, and blue lights flickered at the edges of my vision, keeping me from calming myself.
Right, it was Christmas season.
There were still two weeks until the holiday, but the excitement was everywhere, in everyone.
Ever since that day, with the recording, I’d lost all interest in listening to music. And who could blame me? I was still reeling from that ending refrain fade out, and the echo of Takuto-san’s voice still lingered in my ears.
There were sparse lights coming from various windows on a building across the street, appearing like musical notes on the piano roll of a sequencer program. Looking at it reminded me of when I had dug through Makita Shun’s USB drives.
I felt a sharp pain coming from the back of my nose.
It wasn’t the pain from feeling cold; no, it was the pain of being on the verge of tears.
I stuck my hands into my pockets and clenched them tight, as though I was trying to hold it all back. I didn’t have the right to cry, to mourn Makita Shun; I’d never even met this man, who’d passed away just last year. My only connection to him was having stolen his music out of desire; really, I was nothing more than a miserable thief unable to pawn off his own stolen goods.
And here I was now, causing trouble for everyone by taking a break from the band and having nothing to show for it, even as Christmas steadily approached. It was downright embarrassing that all I’d accomplished was uploading a song with an ambiguous copyright status — even there, I’d deleted the upload and made no follow-up. I wonder if our comment section or our social media accounts were blowing up with messages…
The sudden worry caused me to take my phone out of my pocket.
I checked the PNO channel; there weren’t any particularly nasty comments there.
It was then that I noticed the notification mark on the MisaOtoko channel — there was a new update.
I tapped on my phone with hands now numb from the cold — actually, I couldn’t press it very well, and I ended up having to rub my finger against the screen instead.
There was a new video uploaded. Its thumbnail was almost identical to the one before: a small toy piano sitting atop bedsheets.
The title was ‘Advent #2’.
I dug around my pockets to find my earphones and clumsily managed to plug them in despite my numb hands. I put them into my ears before tapping on the thumbnail.
Thin, bony arms were the first things that appeared on screen again.
The intro began like a chiming bell, and a flowing arpeggio like falling snow followed it. This song was…
CHRISTMAS EVE by Yamashita Tatsurou.
It was arranged in a Baroque-style that matched the glittery tone and melody. Was she going to upload covers of well-known Christmas songs every week?
I leaned back, pressing my head against the side of the building, and stared up into the starless night sky.
By the end of the second listen, my entire body felt frozen solid, down to the tips of my fingers and toes. By the end of the third, I was ready to cry… but I breathed deep and held it all back.
I had no right to cry, not now. I had to push down the tears that welled down, keep them buried at the bottom of my heart to become musical notes.
With those thoughts in mind, I found the will to get back on my feet.
I quietly returned to the studio, hoping the girls wouldn’t notice I had come back — they didn’t, but was that because they were focused on the practice, or were they just pretending not to have?
After sitting myself down on a chair in a corner of the room, I watched as the orchestra I was no longer a part of played my songs brilliantly, one after another. The warm air of the room pressed against my freezing skin, and I could feel my blood starting to flow like normal.
The girls did talk amongst themselves in the break between songs, but those were short – to review performance and share opinions; they didn’t pay me any mind. Right now, that consideration felt very warm.
Eventually, practice time came to an end, and the four of them began putting everything away. A question suddenly came to mind as I was helping Rinko coil the shield cord.
“Um, Rinko, what happened to the song you wrote? You guys didn’t practice it, did you?”
“Oh, yeah, about that…”
Rinko sounded hesitant. Having heard my question, the others directed complicated looks to her.
Wait, was this something I shouldn’t have mentioned?
“We’re not playing it.”
“…What? But why? It was a good song, wasn’t it?”
When I prodded her for an explanation, Rinko returned a troubled look.
“We tried arranging it together, but no matter how hard we tried, it never sounded very good. I thought it sounded like a good song when I first composed it on the piano, but I guess it wasn’t. So we decided not to play it. I’ll just redo it.”
“Huh? Really? But…”
Was that really it? I mean, I guess if Rinko and the others all felt the same, then there was nothing I could do about it.
“And, well, once again, I was impressed by how amazing you really are, Murase-kun.”
“Wha..?!”
Her words caught me in such surprise that I let out a weird noise. What was she playing at, being all blunt like this?
“Yeah, it really is amazing how you’ve written so many songs and bring each of them to life so easily, Murase-senpai. And since you’re not reusing any materials from your MusaO days, it’s like you never run out of ideas.”
“It’s as though God decided Makoto-san should be born with equal parts cuteness and musical talent.”
“He might be the most heartless guy around, but his songs sure are amazing. Or, maybe his songs turn out amazing because of how heartless he is.”
“What happened to, uh, knowing when you should and shouldn’t be making jokes?”
Akane tilted her head, looking amazed.
“Well, y’know, there’s times when its okay to joke around and times when its not okay. And this is a good time to joke around.”
“Isn’t this turnaround a little too quick..?”
“You say that, but have you seen yourself, Makoto-chan? I dunno what caused it, but your turnaround was even faster!” Akane said with a laugh.
“I can’t guess what happened either, but your face does look so much better,” Shizuki happily added. In a panic, I quickly covered my face with both hands.
Was I really that easy to understand…
“So what happened?”
Rinko brought her face close, staring unblinkingly into my eyes.
“Nothing, uh, happened. Maybe it was, um, thanks to Yamashita Tatsurou… I think…”
I gave a nonsensical answer, but it wasn’t like I was lying. In the end, I dodged answering the question.
But of course, I’d forgotten one important fact: the girls also knew about Hanazono-sensei’s channel. The next day, after they discovered the truth, they teased me relentlessly and mercilessly.
*
It was later that weekend when I received an email from Takuto-san. After coming home from school, I checked my inbox to find a message with an unfamiliar, alphabetic name. Since the subject field was blank, I initially thought it was spam mail, only to discover it was the stage name Kuboi Takuto used while overseas.
“Please send over the recording data. Our engineer will handle the mixdown and mastering. We will be uploading it on our channel, so please do not upload it to your own. We will split the revenue evenly. A draft of the contract has been attached as well. Please also provide your mailing address.“
it was a short email talking about business matters.
There was no greeting, no mention of what had happened, no blame — there was none of that at all.
The dry, robotic sentences meant it had to have been Takuto-san who wrote the email. When I realized that, it was like the stagnant cloud deep within me began to peacefully disperse.
But it wasn’t a sense of relief or even one of liberation. It was an emotion much harder to express with words — it was a feeling of having held something precious for so long only to let it fly free now that its time had come.
Still, that didn’t mean Takuto-san was no longer angry at me nor that he had forgiven me.
If anything, sending this proved he was just like me: an absolutely, hopelessly music-obssessed idiot.
And so I wouldn’t apologize either. Instead, I just read and signed off on the contract he provided and, because the recording data was too large to attach, provided a URL to a hosting site where I had uploaded the files.
After sending the email, a wave of lethargy came over me. I leaned back against my chair and lazily counted my own heartbeats for a time.
Before long, sat back up and put on my headphones.
I dug out that song, the one I couldn’t bear listening to since the day of its recording, out from the folder I’d buried it in, and I brought it back to life.
As the quiet guitar riffs began their approach, signaling the start of the song, I closed my eyes. Behind my eyelids, I could see the figure of Takuto-san, strumming his Taylor 912ce in the booth of the recording studio. His thin, bony fingers cast jagged shadows over the strings that seemed to dance to the sound of his whispers.
And beside him, I saw another figure – me – strumming a Precision Bass and humming along.
Then, on Takuto-san’s other side, I thought I could see the outline of another person running their fingers over the keys of a Yamaha MODX8 as they sang in a high falsetto.
It was all an illusion…
…because, after all, that person was nothing but ash now.
Nobody could know what he was thinking; nobody could ask for his forgiveness. Nobody could send words of atonement, words of consolation that would reach him.
And yet, he would also never disappear. He was still here, after all, as a voice that lived on in my computer, in the vast ocean that was the internet, in the microscopic pits of a compact disc. After all, music was nothing if it had no listeners; it would simply be the remains of a fragmented, transient piece of time…
…but so long as it could have a listener, it would never truly disappear.
Headcanon TL 
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