Chapter 10: The First Voice

Dawn broke softly, the pale light slipping through my curtains as if hesitant to disturb the quiet warmth of the room. I lay still for a moment, waiting almost instinctively for the soft click of the curtain rod—Alisa's signal that the day had begun.

"Good morning, dear," she whispered as she stepped inside, her pale sky-blue blouse catching the light.

"Good morning," I murmured, blinking away the last traces of sleep.

Downstairs, the house breathed its usual rhythm—calm, ordered, perfect. Breakfast was waiting for me: a bowl of parfait with berries arranged in a gradient so precise it almost looked like art, ginger-honey tea that smelled faintly spicy and warm, and two fluffy egg-white pancakes dusted lightly with cinnamon. Alisa poured my tea before I even noticed.

"You looked tired yesterday," she said softly. "Ginger will help."

I smiled, feeling the careful balance of care and control in her voice. "Thank you."

The morning passed in the usual way—quiet, structured. But today, after school, something new awaited me.

Alisa led me down a corridor I hadn't taken before. The walls gleamed softly under hidden lighting, and at the end stood a tall woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile.

"This is Ms. Hoshino," Alisa introduced. "She will help you find your voice."

My heart fluttered nervously. Singing was something I had never dared to dream aloud, yet here it was—an unexpected promise.

Ms. Hoshino stepped forward and extended her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Noah. Singing isn't about perfection. It's about feeling. Are you ready to start?"

I nodded, voice barely above a whisper. "Yes."

She smiled warmly. "Good. Let's begin with breathing."

I followed her to a small practice room, its walls lined with soft panels to catch sound. There was a piano in the corner, and a single window letting in late afternoon light.

"First lesson: breath control," she said, settling onto a stool.

She lifted her hands to her ribs and took a slow, deep breath. "Watch how I breathe. Feel how my ribs expand, my stomach softens. Now you try."

I inhaled quickly, stiff, unsure.

"Not quite," she said gently. "Breathe like you're filling a balloon inside your belly, not just your chest. Try again."

I closed my eyes, trying to imagine the balloon, pushing air deeper.

"Better." She nodded, voice calm but encouraging. "Now, hold it just for a second, then let the air out slowly. Imagine you're blowing out a candle."

I released the breath, but it came out in a rush.

"Slower," she advised. "Gentle, like a breeze. Try again."

I tried again, and this time it was steadier.

"Excellent," Ms. Hoshino smiled, reaching over to lightly touch my arm. "You're doing very well."

I blinked, surprised by her kindness. She didn't sound impatient at all.

"Now," she said, "let's find your first note."

My throat felt tight as I opened my mouth to hum.

"Think of a soft 'mmm,' like you're humming a lullaby."

I tried, but the note cracked and faltered.

"Again," she encouraged. "This time, breathe first. Remember the balloon."

I took a deep breath, then hummed again. The note was small, trembling, but it held.

"That's your voice finding its way," she said softly. "It's beautiful."

For the next hour, she guided me through gentle exercises—breathing, humming, sliding up and down scales.

"Don't worry about hitting every note perfectly," Ms. Hoshino said, smiling. "This is about discovering your sound, your feeling."

I nodded, feeling a flutter of hope. Maybe I could do this.

Over the next days, the lessons became a welcome part of my routine.

After school, I would wait eagerly for Ms. Hoshino's soft knock on the door.

Sometimes, the exercises were frustrating.

My breath would falter, or a note would break unexpectedly.

Each time, Ms. Hoshino would look at me with gentle patience.

"Every singer stumbles," she said one afternoon. "Even the best."

One day, as I tried a particularly long note, my voice cracked badly.

I flushed with embarrassment.

Ms. Hoshino chuckled softly. "See? Even your voice has a personality. That crack means it's stretching, growing."

I laughed quietly.

"Don't be afraid to make mistakes," she advised. "Mistakes are part of learning."

One afternoon, I found myself confiding more than usual.

"Do you think I'll ever be good?" I asked quietly.

Ms. Hoshino regarded me thoughtfully.

"Good? What does that mean to you?"

I hesitated.

"To be able to sing without being afraid... to feel like it's really me."

Her eyes softened.

"That's a beautiful goal, Noah. And you're already on your way."

The weeks slipped by faster than I expected.

Every lesson built on the last.

I learned to feel the music—not just hear it.

I practiced at home, humming quietly, trying to match the notes Ms. Hoshino showed me.

I started noticing little changes.

My breathing grew steadier.

My voice more confident.

One month after the first lesson, Ms. Hoshino invited Alisa to hear me sing.

The small music room was bright with late afternoon sun.

I stood nervously, heart pounding.

Alisa sat quietly, watching.

Ms. Hoshino played a gentle chord on the piano.

"Whenever you're ready," she said.

I took a deep breath.

The notes floated out—clear and steady, stronger than before.

I sang a simple melody Ms. Hoshino had taught me.

When the song ended, Alisa smiled softly—a rare warmth breaking through her usual calm.

"That was wonderful, Noah," she said quietly.

I felt a rush of pride and relief.

Later that night, as Alisa tucked me into bed, brushing my hair gently, I tried to put the feeling into words.

"Singing... it feels like breathing in a new world," I said softly.

Her eyes met mine, steady and unreadable.

"That's because it is," she replied.

Outside my door, monitors tracked every breath, every heartbeat—guarding the delicate thread between my world and the outside.

Her love was both a shield and a tether.

In this quiet, controlled world, every moment was a choice.

And Alisa was determined to keep me safe, no matter the cost.