No Way Back

"…You're the painting, more lovely than any hue,

I'm just the artist standing far from you.

Though my heart aches, I'd still be near,

If you only knew — I've always been right here.

I love you softly, like wind loves leaves in flight,

Like sky loves clouds — with no need to hold them tight.

Even if you never know, my love will stay,

Just to see you smile — and the world flies away."

 In a lush green field, the late afternoon sun draped everything in a warm, gentle glow. Hiroki strummed chords softly on his electric guitar, the notes drifting through the serene dusk. Occasionally, he fumbled, striking a wrong string—but each simple, tender melody felt like a whispered confession from a sincere soul. He hummed along, his voice slightly unsteady yet imbued with a surprising warmth.

Yuna sat across from him, chin resting in her palm, her gaze tracing every movement of his hands.

"Your music is so soothing. Perfect for falling asleep," she said.

Hiroki paused and lifted his gaze, eyebrows arching. "So… it's just really… soporific?"

She laughed softly, a light warmth in her eyes. "No, I didn't mean that. I meant it's gentle—it's comforting. So, what's this song called?"

"I haven't named it yet," he admitted.

"Oh? Let me help then. Tell me—where did you get the inspiration?"

Yuna tilted her head, narrowed her eyes playfully as if teasing. "If it has lyrics, I'd guess it's meant for… someone special, right?"

She leaned forward, blinking at him expectantly. Hiroki looked away, sheepish. He hadn't written it for anyone specific—just followed his intuition, letting the words find him. Maybe for Jun? Or Yuna? Or simply a fleeting inspiration.

He hesitated, his fingers tracing the strings. "I don't know… I just… felt like writing it."

"Hm…" She stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Hiroki…"

"Yes?"

"Someday, if you compose more songs, promise you'll let me hear them."

"Well, sure—during summer, maybe. Once school starts, I'll be swamped," he replied.

"That's fine," she shrugged, emphasizing each word. "But if you write something new, you must share it. Music connects people… and helps us understand each other more."

Hiroki gazed into the distance, voice gentle yet pensive. "To me, music is deeply personal—a private world. I only share it with people who truly listen."

"So you won't release them?" she asked.

"Not now. They're rough drafts, unfinished."

"Right… you haven't even named it yet. How about… 'Melody of the Heart'?"

"Melody of the Heart?" he repeated, savoring the sweetness of the phrase.

"Yeah. Because it's written from your heart, right?"

He was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Not bad."

He tuned the guitar with his pick, each note resonant and smooth. A gentle breeze rustled the grass, swaying as if dancing to the music.

To Hiroki, music had opened a whole new world. It became his sweet escape after exhaustion, the joy he clung to in spare moments.

Under Mr. Takumi's guidance, his skills had improved markedly. Talent ran in the family—Jun's musicality, Hiroki suspected, came from the same source. He often lugged his big guitar to the antique-bookstore-turned-reading-room where Mr. Takumi worked.

Lately, Mr. Takumi spent more time at the store, no longer just sipping tea on the porch. Every afternoon, Hiroki would find him cleaning up, closing the front, and settling in. Aside from serving customers, they cleared time for Hiroki. He'd leave his guitar close by and play whenever he had a moment.

Fortunate enough to have Mr. Takumi as his mentor, Hiroki practiced theory—chord reading, techniques like bending, sliding, tapping—all from the guidebook Mr. Takumi provided.

A lifelong teacher, Mr. Takumi blended theory with practice and inspired Hiroki with stories of guitar legends—Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton. Hiroki spent hours each day refining riffs and solo techniques. Mr. Takumi praised his lyrics as poetry set to music, coaching him on how to polish them further.

By junior year, songwriting had become a nightly habit. He'd fall asleep amid scattered sheets of music, chasing inspiration until exhaustion.

But the problem now? He lacked a steady muse. His first pieces had sprung from spontaneous thoughts—like lullabies inspired by starlings swirling overhead, songs like "Sweet Sixteen's Gift" celebrating his beloved guitar, or "The Little House on the Hill", a haunting tale of an abandoned house that no child dared approach.

Ideas fluttered through his mind like whispered stories—words someone else might have spoken to him in the twilight. Revisiting his collection, the first song remained Melody of the Heart.

Hiroki puzzled over why love—especially elusive, unrequited love—stirred the richest musical inspiration for him.

But why was music the only thing that could decode it?

What did love mean, to him, when he thought of Yuna?

And what did love mean, when he thought of Jun?

The final year of high school passed by like the opening notes of a song—swift, fleeting. Before Hiroki knew it, graduation loomed, along with the life-altering decision that awaited every student: university.

Aware of what lay ahead, Hiroki had already asked his father to pack away his electric guitar and all his handwritten compositions. They were sealed tightly in storage, like fragments of a passion he could no longer afford to indulge.

His father never forbade him, never insisted on anything. He simply did what Hiroki needed him to do.

In the dim living room, the television buzzed with a static click, casting flickering light on the stained walls. Empty liquor bottles rolled under the couch, clinking every time the breeze slipped through the gaps in the windows.

But tonight, Hiroki's father wasn't sprawled on the sofa like usual. Instead, he sat hunched by the sliding door, staring out into the damp courtyard, his hollow eyes searching the misty darkness for something long gone.

A shogi board lay before him, its wooden pieces scattered in quiet disarray—like a battlefield abandoned mid-war.

The sound of slow footsteps echoed down the hallway. In the suffocating stillness of the house, every creak of floorboard under Hiroki's feet rang loud and clear. His father didn't turn around. He simply murmured,

"Hiroki… will you sit and talk with me for a moment?"

The boy stepped into the room, wordless, and settled across from him. His gaze drifted to the board. He gently rotated each piece upright, restoring the game to its proper order—something he had done instinctively since he was a child.

Hiroki made the first move, pushing a fu (pawn) up the third row. A quiet beginning to a game that carried far more than black and white.

"What university are you planning to apply to?" his father asked directly, making his countermove with a gin (silver general).

"I don't know yet," Hiroki replied, eyes still locked on the board.

"Go for Osaka City University," his father said, calm but certain.

"Why?" Hiroki countered, capturing one of his father's pawns.

"Back in the day, I went there too," his father muttered, letting out a short laugh. "It's not as intense as the others. You'll have more time. And since you're into music, I figured it might suit you."

Hiroki paused, taken aback by the rare moment of understanding. He hadn't realized his father noticed—let alone cared about—his love for music.

He responded only with silence, taking another piece—a kei (knight). "I'm still thinking."

"Jeez, you stubborn kid…" his father sighed, shaking his head as he countered with a kaku (bishop), flipping the tide.

Suddenly, his father said, "When you leave... I'm going back to work."

That caught Hiroki off guard. "Why?"

He almost never asked questions like that.

His father exhaled slowly, gaze heavy. "Once you're gone... I won't have a reason to sit around anymore. I need to start taking care of myself. I can't keep being your burden."

They resumed playing, but now every move hit harder. The wooden pieces slammed down with a dull, final clack. Hiroki's fingers gripped each one tightly, veins standing out on his hand. With every piece he captured, it felt like a release—a piece of years of pent-up frustration finally let go. Years of silence. Of liquor. Of cold dinners and colder nights.

"Then why didn't you do that sooner?" he asked, still focused on the board.

His father froze. For the first time in the match, he didn't know how to respond.

After a long beat, he said, quietly,

"Because of your mother…"

Hiroki looked up.

"Don't bring her into this again," he said, voice steady but sharp. "She killed herself. And you—did you ever love her?"

His father's eyes dimmed. The question struck like a final blow.

"I want to know. Even if it's long gone," Hiroki said, lowering the final piece. A sharp click marked checkmate—the ōshō (king) was cornered. The match was over. "Because I'm leaving. For good. And I won't be back."

His father didn't look at the board. He stared at the courtyard, where the streetlight flickered beyond a veil of light rain.

He spoke slowly, each word like a needle pressed to skin. "Your mother… was promised to me by your grandmother. An arranged marriage. I never wanted it. I protested. I begged. But she said we couldn't bring shame to the Mamoru name. So I married a woman I didn't love. In fact... I resented her. Even though she never did anything wrong. She was kind. Gentle. Innocent."

His voice trembled.

"On our wedding night, she sat alone while I drank myself numb. For years, she bore my child, cooked every meal, mended every torn shirt… while I left early, came home late. Without a word. Without a glance. Like she didn't exist."

Hiroki said nothing. He stared at the board, at the man who had just confessed—not a loss, but a sin.

"I only held you once. When you were born. Just once," he whispered. "And then… one day, I came home and found her. Hanging in her room. The rope dug deep into her neck. Everything collapsed. No more warm meals. No one waiting at the door. Just a child curled in a corner. No tears. No sound."

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Even at her funeral, young Hiroki had not shed a single tear.

"I never knew how to be a father," he admitted. "And I forgot how to love anyone."

 Hiroki rose, slowly. He didn't look at his father—only turned away, biting his lip to hold back what wanted to break free.

 "I killed someone who didn't deserve to be broken," his father said. "Maybe it's better I stay here… alone."

 Hiroki paused at the threshold. His shadow stretched long across the floor. He let out a deep breath—and walked away.

 The door remained open, letting in the chill. All that was left was the soft crackle of the TV, and a man slumped in front of a shogi board, staring down at a game he had long since lost.

 Hiroki pedaled home after a long day at school, the wheels of his bicycle crunching softly against the dirt path. The chill wind brushed against his face, refreshing in a strange, fleeting way. Overhead, heavy cumulonimbus clouds gathered thickly, casting shadows across the greying sky.

 His bike rolled slowly across the ground until it came to a sudden halt. In the distance, he caught sight of a familiar silhouette—Yuna.

 Her house stood tucked along a quiet, tree-lined road. Traditional yet elegant, it was far grander than Hiroki's own home. Built from gleaming wood, its curved ceramic roof blended old-world charm with modern accents, like the large glass-paneled windows. Behind it, a wide courtyard opened to a sprawling tea field that stretched toward the rolling hills of Ikeda. The faint scent of tea mingled with earth and greenery.

 Yuna sat hunched on the steps, arms wrapped around herself, her face downcast and lifeless as the overcast sky. In her hand, she clutched a crumpled piece of paper. Her eyes, empty and unfocused, landed on a pair of shoes.

 Looking up, she didn't need to guess. It was Hiroki. His bike leaned against a nearby tree.

 "Yuna, what are you doing here?" he asked, his voice low and warm.

 "I..."

 The words disappeared in her throat. Suddenly, she stood. The silence stretched. Hiroki's eyes drifted to the paper in her hands, its edges wrinkled and torn.

 Without warning, Yuna grabbed his wrist and led him away. They passed a narrow alley that curved toward a wooded hill. Her footsteps were quick, as if she were fleeing something. The dense trees lined the dirt path, blocking out the light. Wind rustled the leaves above, and each step on the path stirred fallen branches and whispers from memories long buried. She walked ahead, arms wrapped around her shoulders, trembling against the cold.

 The path narrowed beneath the growing darkness of the forest. The earthy scent of damp moss and decaying leaves hung thick in the air. The forest was hushed, ancient trees looming like silent witnesses. Hiroki could barely see, but he could hear her breathing, hear her steps as they stumbled forward. She brushed aside brittle twigs that snagged at her arms, her gaze fixed ahead.

 Then, through the trees, a small abandoned house appeared—weathered and forgotten. Hiroki recognized it immediately. The rumored haunted shrine.

 It looked just like the stories. Its once-elegant red-tiled roof had rotted away, wooden walls collapsed inward, overtaken by moss and mold. Somewhere, a bush warbler let out a solitary trill, soft and somber, as if singing a lullaby for a place time had left behind.

 Hiroki placed a hand on a nearby tree, eyes wide at the shrine-like shape before him. He masked his unease but couldn't shake the growing dread curling inside him.

 "What is this place...?"

 Yuna didn't answer. She stopped before the door, her eyes vacant as she stepped inside. Hiroki followed quickly, entering a space where nothing remained but broken walls and warped floorboards.

 "Are you afraid of places like this?" she asked softly, settling onto a long, decaying wooden bench against the wall, her gaze sweeping the space.

 He watched her for a moment, then shrugged. "Not really. It's not that scary. Kind of peaceful, actually."

 Yuna scratched her cheek awkwardly. The silence between them grew thick. She glanced down at the paper in her hands, then slowly unfolded it, smoothing out the creases.

 "College preference form?" Hiroki raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to lean against the wall.

 "Mm."

 He squinted to read the form. His lips moved quietly.

 "Osaka University?"

 A prestigious school, located in Ibaraki.

 "What about you, Hiroki?" she asked gently, sadness edging her voice.

 "Osaka City University."

 "Why didn't you pick Osaka University, too? We could've gone to the same—"

 She stopped herself. She had no right to expect anything from him. But the idea of him being somewhere else tugged at her chest.

 Who else could ever replace someone like Hiroki?

 "Forget it. This form isn't final anyway. Just a school survey. I was venting, sorry... Today's been rough. Whether you listen or not, I just... I didn't know who else to go to."

 He shook his head. "No, go ahead. I'm listening."

Yuna clutched the paper for a second longer, then exhaled, letting it fall limp in her hands. She walked to the old sliding door, resting her hand on its weathered frame. The wood creaked beneath her fingers.

 The truth was, Yuna had originally wanted to major in foreign languages—something she loved, something she was good at. But her family had dismissed the idea, calling it impractical. They told her translation work or going abroad would only lead to hardship and instability. Her parents had already chosen her future: humanities, pharmacy, economics, or literature.

 "You're smart. I'm sure you'll do fine," Hiroki offered.

 "No. I had to fight just to keep up. Natural sciences come easily to you. For me, I have to push twice—three times as hard. Just seeing a chemistry equation makes my stomach churn like it's full of acid..."

 He chuckled despite himself, pity and affection mingling in his expression.

 The Ikeda family was strict, restrained. Her siblings, too, were pressured and groomed like her.

 "When she was young, my grandmother used to be a shrine maiden," Yuna continued. "She would come here to pray. This house... no one remembers when it was built, but it used to look like a small shrine. Some people used to stop by. Sometimes, she brought me here, too. I'd run around the hill while she prayed."

 Hiroki wandered further inside. On a dusty altar sat a carved wooden statue of a deity. He brushed it gently; beneath the grime, the polished wood flaked away. Small incense holders surrounded it, stuffed with old, shriveled sticks of ash.

 "You really prayed here?" he asked quietly.

 Yuna nodded, her eyes soft and distant. She stared at the altar, where the god carved in wood still watched silently.

 "Yeah. Grandma said... the gods here didn't need fancy offerings. Just sincerity."

 She stood and brushed the dust off the wooden board set before the shrine. A few tattered talismans lay there, their writing nearly faded. She gathered them gently to one side, then pulled Hiroki nearby.

 "Shall we… try praying?" she asked softly. "Like asking to pass the university entrance, maybe?"

 "There isn't even a single incense stick left here," Hiroki replied.

 "No need for incense," she said. "Just close your eyes and bow three times."

 "To whom exactly?"

 "To the mountain spirit. And I'll pray to my grandmother. No one's visited here in ages… the gods must be lonely. Since we're here, why not try? Maybe they'll hear."

 The wooden deity statue sat in silence, its expression strangely calm despite a chipped shoulder. No incense, no offerings—only an abandoned sacred space.

 Yuna bowed her head and folded her hands. Hiroki stood beside her, hesitantly mirroring her gesture.

 He prayed for many things: acceptance into university, a brighter future, that his father might find peace—

 After a moment, Yuna tilted her head toward him, whispering:

 "Finished?"

 "Yes," he answered.

 A sudden breeze swept through the shattered window pane, stirring a thin layer of dust around the statue. A sliver of moonlight filtered through the broken roof, bathing the statue in an ethereal, serene glow.

 They opened their eyes. Yuna's voice was soft:

 "Actually, after my grandmother died, this place was forgotten… people stopped coming, and it fell into ruin. They even started calling it the 'haunted house.'"

 Outside, the sky darkened. A flock of bush warblers swept overhead. Their high-pitched calls shattered the stillness of the heavens.

 Hiroki and Yuna stepped outside, standing on the shrine's porch, gazing upward. As the birds vanished, raindrops began to fall. Light rain pattered on the ground and traced damp trails down Yuna's cheek.

 They took shelter inside the decaying house. Rain thundered against the walls, the moldy scent stinging Hiroki's nose. He leaned against the entrance beam, watching the downpour's rhythmic pulse.

 "Just now… were those bush warblers?"

 Hiroki asked. Indeed, he recognized their lonely, haunting calls—they even sounded like the melody from his song Call of the Bush Warbler.

 Yuna lowered onto the weathered bench, her voice nearly drowned by the rain: "The kids say it sounds like ghosts whistling. They can spin any tale about this place."

 He was silent.

 After a pause, Hiroki eventually asked, "Are you planning to leave?"

 "No… I don't have an umbrella. And I snuck out anyway."

 Hiroki turned to find her hunched over the bench, lightly coughing. He stepped forward, draped his uniform jacket over her shoulders, and Yuna moved to let him share it.

 They sat there together in the old shrine, cocooned in the gentle warmth between them, listening to the rain battered roof.

 "And… your parents—they never pushed you like that, did they?" she asked quietly, cocooned in his jacket.

 Hiroki was stunned, searching his words. His eyes softened when he looked at her. For the first time, he felt ready to open his heart.

 "My mom… she passed away when I was three years old." His voice caught. "Since then… my dad and I've been struggling. I've had to do almost everything on my own."

 Yuna remained silent, gazing at him with profound empathy and compassion.

 "But… I want to live independently."

 Outside, the rain kept falling—each droplet painting the misty scene outside, echoing emotions too deep for words.

 "Hey Hiroki."

 "Yes?"

 "You're still sure you want to go to Osaka City University?"

 He nodded firmly, without hesitation.

 She paused, then gently leaned on his shoulder. The warmth of her body seeped through his jacket, like a soft, refreshing stream.

 She looked up at him, her face close enough he could feel her breath. Her blue eyes seemed to swallow his world, washing away his remaining doubts.

 "So… what will we do after?"

 "We…" Hiroki murmured, his voice soft. "I'll come to you… no matter what happens."

 Her hand rose and touched his cheek. "Promise?"

 "Just call my name…" he replied, pressing her hand to his cheek. He kept his eyes down, not daring to look too directly into hers. Their proximity narrowed until he could hear the uneven rhythm of her breath. His heart pounded, desperate for her reply.

 Just a breath away, her lips trembled as she lowered her head. Her chest rose and fell, and her hands gripped his shoulders. Hiroki's hand lingered on her cheek—an expression of deep concern and a hint of longing.

 "Are you okay?"

 She shook her head, eyes closed tight. "I'm sorry… Hiroki. I'm so sorry…"

 "For what?" he coaxed gently, terrified he might break her fragile heart if he pressed too hard.

 "I… can't forget him." Her words choked out, heavy and glutted with guilt. "I'm sorry, Hiroki…"

 "Then why… in the first place?" he whispered, desperate for the truth.

 A silence as deep as time stretched between them. They sat in the old shrine, watching the endless rain. Finally, Yuna spoke, leaning into his side:

 "Even from the start, it was Sakamoto sensei who encouraged me to get closer to you…"

 "Huh?" he said, voice half-dreaming.

 "But she never expected us to get this close."