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One solitary note rose to the ceiling in the silence of the auditorium. That note was her melody, where her entire piece began. She played that note again and again. She played it piano, she played it forte. She played it pianissimo, then pianississimo, so soft that it almost disappeared. In a concert hall of more than 2,000 people, the only one moving was her. Not even the orchestra dared breathe until her left hand touched the keys and she began the harmony.市ヶ谷 有咲 — her name, as it was spelled out across the tops of huge posters everywhere advertising her performance, the tops of flyers printed and mailed then left in hotel lobbies and store windows. Even online, her name and the image of herself sitting under a spotlight at a piano (just as she was now) was everywhere.The orchestra breathed out as she returned to the melody, her wrists crossed, playing the same haunting chord five times in succession, each time raising the air itself a little higher. At the end of the passage, she uncrossed her wrists and finished, subito forte — suddenly, loudly.She had never stopped playing piano. Once, years ago, she had tried. Back then, she had never had an audience before, had never known the feeling of being the apple of a thousand pairs of eyes. After cleaning her keys one last time, she thought she had closed the door on playing music forever.But her life was so boring. School and its lessons meant little to her; what she did not know already, she did not care to learn in earnest. Having friends might have motivated her to continue her education, but no one sought her out during breaks, and in revenge she showed no interest in making any.Eventually, she just stopped going altogether.Life at home was hardly better. She never thought at all about the piano, forgotten as it was in her basement. Her only hobbies became gardening and browsing the internet. So she ran the family business, leaned against the wall and sat on the stairs or on closed boxes waiting to welcome whoever would wander in. If it happened to be a person her age, even if they happened to be wearing her school's uniform, either they did not know each other or their conversation would be so clipped that she would walk away and pretend to be sorting or cleaning.But when her grandmother asked her to play a song for her one last time, they slowly made their way down to the basement. Her grandmother sat down on an old armless sofa, while she lifted the fallboard and pulled out the black, diamond-tufted bench that had been pushed underneath the keyboard.Right now, her fingers pressed a story into the keys. The story was dramatic and emotional, every chord in progression, coming together to form something pensive and clear. It resonated with a history that everyone could feel but only she could completely understand, because it was her story. This was her performance, and she was drama, was emotion.She was wearing the dress she had been given at the photo shoot for her ad, where professionals had taken her picture next to the piano she would be playing. The dress was beautifully simple and all black. They had told her to keep it and wear it the day of the performance.Its sleeves were black satin. They fell off her wrists and formed pools that undulated softly with the movement of her hands. An entire orchestra stood behind her keys, and two thousand people stood upon her keys.Largo, andante. She was walking across the keyboard. Her tempo gained speed. She played a trill, then another. All the while, the orchestra's volume climbed upward in a crescendo. Then with the last note she flicked her wrist and —Allegro. In the breath after the orchestra reached its climax, she picked up where she had left off. The sound of her piano traveled throughout the concert hall and sent a shiver down even her own spine.Her playing was flawless. Her left hand was Harmony and her right was Melody. Every key, she hit perfectly; every bar, she played timely. Where a lead singer needed backup vocalists, she did not, because she already had two voices. She was lead and backing, melody and harmony, treble and bass.For the first time since she had started her performance — for the first time since she could remember, actually — she looked up. Her neck resisted in the same way a taut string disliked to be pulled on.In the darkness, she could not make out the far side of the room. Her audience had vanished. Of the 2,150 seats in the house, now only four in the front row were actually full. The people sitting in them glowed, as if the darkness behind them was simply a false background and they were actually sitting in a well lit room. Their eyes were riveted on her, faces fixed in smiles with undertones of emotions she could not discern.And despite having never seen them before, she could name all four of them. Despite the fact that they looked upon her with the faces of friends, they did not belong here in her empty auditorium. They had never met her for real, had never gotten to know her, had never listened to any of her performances before. But she knew all their names, just as they knew hers.Her performance had already concluded, the lingering reverberation of the orchestra already gone away. The only thing left was the sight of those four faces at the forefront of an invisible crowd.And although she did not understand why, she found tears welling up in her eyes. They formed wobbly pools in the lower half of her vision, but in spite of it, she could still see the smiles directed at her from the front row, clear as day. Then she blinked, and her tears spilled down her face to her chin, where they fell onto her lap and left dark marks in the black satin.Seconds later, a strong impact hit her in the front of her chest and began to crush her. Her eyes flew open, and her arms would have shoved away whatever had landed on her if they were not trapped by her side."H-hey!" she said with a croak, struggling to sit up. The person trying to squeeze her to death only tightened her hold, so she gave up on trying. While she caught her breath, she saw that shadows were splayed across the ceiling. Her laptop, positioned somewhere behind her head, was still playing the music she had been listening to before. The lower half of her body was tucked into her sleeping bag. "Kasumi, what the heck are you doing?"She heard sniffling. Every breath was accompanied by a small shudder. "You were crying," Kasumi said, her voice a whisper. "I thought you were having a bad dream."Her first instinct was to touch her face, but she was unable to do so since her hands were trapped. However, she could tell from blinking a few times that her tears had indeed been real."So why are you crying then?" she asked in a tone that suggested annoyance. In reality, her chest shook with quiet laughter as the person holding onto her squirmed."I couldn't help it!"Turning her head, she saw three more sleeping bags, a girl sitting in or on top of each one. They were her friends, and they were all watching with little smiles as if they could guess what was yet to transpire. She rolled her eyes, determined not to give them what they were expecting.Her gaze went back to the ceiling."But yeah," she said softly. She shifted so that she could lift her arms and put them around her friend's waist. She shut her eyes, listening to her friend's sniffles and the last faint strokes of the piano as the concerto on her computer came to an end."It wasn't really all that great of a dream."