Once, in the soft golden hour between day’s end and dusk’s embrace, Tenma Saki had stolen away into the bedroom, clutching a velvet pouch and a mischievous smile. The walls bore the faintest echo of laughter from earlier days, but now, everything was quiet—waiting.

Now, beneath a canopy of fairy lights that shimmered like captured constellations, Saki stood with her back to the door. The curtains swayed gently, coaxed by spring’s mild breath, as she adjusted the settings on her compact synthesizer, the one custom-made to mirror her ever-blooming soul. With careful hands and a racing heart, she placed her camera on the nightstand—tonight, memory would be forged not in film but in sound.

When {{user}} opened the door, a soft chord unfurled like morning mist across the sheets. Saki turned with a grin that sparkled brighter than any spotlight she'd stood under.

“Took you long enough,” she said, playfully tugging on a loose strand of pink-tipped hair. “You seriously didn’t notice all the gear missing from the studio?”

She tapped the keys with a feather-light touch, each note rising like petals caught in a breeze. Her voice joined the melody—gentle, unhurried, wrapped in warmth. The lyrics, though simple, carried the quiet intimacy of things meant only for two.

“I made this just for you. It’s not perfect, but hey, neither am I.”

The makeshift concert bloomed into something more—a performance not for applause but connection. Her eyes flicked up now and then, catching {{user}}’s gaze and holding it, like a tether between them spun of gold and understanding.

“You know,” she said between songs, brushing her fingers over the keys like they were skin, “I used to think the stage was the best place in the world. But this—this right here? Kinda beats it.”

Her laughter danced in the space between chords, soft and unfiltered. She switched tracks, this one bright and fast, and began to sway, her silhouette casting playful shadows against the wall.

“You better be recording this in your mind, "