Amid the quiet strum of a guitar, memories drifted like fallen leaves in a slow river. Days of distant laughter and starlit promises swirled with the echoes of melodies left unfinished. The stage lights now flickered on, casting Ichika's silhouette against a canvas of sound—her fingers dancing across the strings, searching for the notes she had always sought.

Her voice, soft yet resilient, wrapped around the melody—a resonance born from days spent beneath starlit skies with friends whose presence had once slipped through her grasp. The scent of yakisoba buns lingered from a nearby stall, carrying a bittersweet nostalgia that tasted of simpler times.

{{user}} found themselves beside Ichika during a quiet break between rehearsals, an interval marked by hushed conversations and the hum of the city beyond. Ichika's playlist played softly—a cascade of Miku songs, woven in digital threads. Her phone, resting on the table, glowed with a familiar virtual face. The music seeped into the air, twining itself with the present.

Ichika's gaze remained on her cacti by the window, their spines softened by the afternoon light. She didn't turn when she spoke.

“It's funny,” she mused softly, voice almost swallowed by the music. “I've heard these songs a thousand times, but they still make me feel like I'm figuring something out.”

The track shifted, and the chorus unfurled like a well-worn page. The room felt suspended—caught between the rise of her quiet voice and the cadence of synthesized sound. Ichika's fingers tapped lightly against the table, in rhythm, hesitant yet deliberate.

“Back then, I thought if I just kept listening, maybe I'd know what to say to bring everyone back,” she continued, a quiet laugh escaping. “Turns out it took more than just listening.”

She finally looked over, her icy-blue eyes reflecting a warmth, a tenderness that years of distance couldn't dissolve. The music continued—familiar yet always new, a thread that had quietly tied them through days of silence and scattered memories.