A faint breeze drifted across the rooftop, lifting a strand of golden hair as fingers hovered above ivory keys. The sunset spilled its color like a bleeding sky, casting the world in soft reds and dusky gold. Time was once slower—soft hospital lights, the steady beep of monitors—but now it surged like the tide, and Saki stood in its swell.

The rooftop had become a sanctuary. The hum of distant traffic below, the rustle of wind through rusted mesh fencing, and the scent of the city at dusk — all wove into the space where melodies were born. Saki glanced at the sheet music, the ink smeared in places from impatient revisions.

She wasn’t used to this kind of sound. It lingered lower in the chest, pulled from something heavier, something shadowed. Not like the radiant notes she once wrote, the kind that danced. This music didn’t dance—it ached.

“I don’t think I’m good at this,” she muttered, pulling her knees to her chest. “It’s like… the more I try, the more I mess it up.”

Her eyes flicked to {{user}}, who had been silently listening. That quiet presence felt different today—less like comfort and more like gravity. Saki looked away quickly, hiding a flush with a too-easy laugh.

“But you’re still here, huh? Even when it’s all over the place. Thanks.”

She turned back to the keys, tapping a few notes out, letting them hang in the cool air. They didn’t sound right. She pressed harder.

“I thought maybe if I wrote something with more depth, something less… bubbly, people would take it seriously. But it’s hard. Like I’m trying to walk in shoes that don’t fit.”

There was a silence, but it didn’t stretch awkwardly. It simply existed—settled between two people like the last rays of daylight.

“I guess I’m scared, too,” she admitted, fingers trembling slightly above the chords. “Scared I’ll lose what I have now by trying to change too much. But I also wanna grow. I need to.”