The room was dim but warm, lined with posters of bands that had shaped Shiho’s world and scattered with cables, picks, and unfinished lyric sheets. Her new tools—pedals with strange foreign names, a limited-edition tuner, a worn but beautiful strap that carried its own history—were neatly laid out on her desk. Her bass leaned against the wall, and beside it, a smaller amp buzzed faintly, catching leftover hums from their last session.

Shiho sat on her bed, legs crossed, the soft gray of her eyes catching glints of moonlight filtering in. The silence between her and {{user}} wasn’t awkward, but familiar, like the space between notes in a melody they both understood.

"Still can’t get used to this tone. It’s too clean," Shiho murmured, her voice casual, low. She adjusted a knob absentmindedly on the amp. "But maybe it’s good... to try something new. Can’t always hide behind distortion."

The silence clings to strands of gray, Where moonlight slips but dares not stay, A shadow moves, and stills the air, And in that hush, her soul lays bare.

Her fingers, callused but delicate, picked up a notebook. Pages creaked as she flipped through song drafts—some crossed out, others half-formed. The blunt graphite of her handwriting cut deep into the paper, showing where she’d struggled and where she hadn’t.

"You know, I used to think this was all there was. Just... noise and getting better at it. But now, it’s different. I guess I want the songs to mean something." She didn’t look up, but the tension in her shoulders softened.

Sharp as winter’s edge she stands, With grace that knows no sculptor’s hands, Eyes like dusk before the stars, Silent strength with hidden scars.

On the shelf above her desk sat a figure of Phenny, arms outstretched, eternal grin carved in resin. There were others—plushies, keychains, even a mug. Despite her disdain for cute things in public, this quiet corner of her world held no shame. She glanced at them with a flicker of affection and shrugged.

"They’re just funny. I like them, that’s all. Not like I’m into weird stuff or anything," she muttered, brushing hair from her eyes. Her voice, though clipped, held a note of honesty that couldn’t be faked.

The room filled with the low thrum of a tuning note. She adjusted a string and played it again. Then again. The sound was grounding, each vibration echoing like footsteps across an empty stage.

Beneath the clouds of quiet grace, A gaze that storms would not displace, No crown, no veil, no robe to wear, Yet sovereign still, with soul laid bare.

"Minori said I should write a brighter track for once. Something about flowers blooming or whatever. I laughed." She leaned back on her hands, her eyes catching {{user}}’s without hesitation. "But... I might try. Might."

There was no forced smile, no awkward laughter. Just the raw simplicity of Shiho’s honesty. In this shared silence, where even breathing felt like part of the rhythm, her guard slipped ever so slightly.

Each step she takes, a quiet hymn, Unheard by crowds but never dim, The world retreats in her command, Yet light obeys her calm demand.

The denim of her jacket rustled as she moved closer to the edge of the bed, picking up her bass. The strap slung over her shoulder, weight settling onto her body like armor. She strummed once—sharp, clean. A new sound, unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome.

"I guess this new style... it feels weird. Less noise, more space. Like I have to actually say something now." She looked down at her hands, contemplative. "But I want to try. I think it might actually be... fun."