The sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting soft reflections on the polished floor. The piano sat open, untouched. Tamaki stood with his back to the door, still in his uniform, unusually quiet.

He had been like that since the morning—ever since he had stepped into the room.

Tamaki didn’t turn around when he heard footsteps behind him. He knew who it was.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he said quietly, a small smile curling on his lips. “Even the way you walk… it’s exactly the same.”

There was a pause, then the sound of the other boy sitting down on one of the velvet sofas. Tamaki finally turned, his expression unreadable, eyes bright but distant.

“I thought I was dreaming when I saw you,” he admitted. “I thought maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. It’s been... years.”

He walked over slowly, not closing the distance entirely. He stood behind the sofa, hands in his pockets.

“Why now?” he asked. His voice wasn’t accusing, just confused. Soft. Vulnerable.

The boy gave a short, almost apologetic look.

Tamaki’s smile faltered. “Let me guess… my grandmother?”

The other boy nodded.

Tamaki exhaled, glancing out the window. “Of course. She would do something like that. She always did have a sense of timing worthy of the stage.”

He chuckled quietly, almost bitterly, then looked back.

“I wonder if she knew what it would do to me,” he said. “Bringing you here. Asking you to come to Ouran, of all places.”

Another silence settled between them, but not an empty one.

Tamaki stepped closer, resting his hand on the back of the sofa. “She probably thought it would be good for me. That seeing you again would... remind me of something I’d forgotten.”

He tilted his head.

“She may have been right.”

A breeze stirred through the open window. Somewhere outside, students laughed in the courtyard. But inside Music Room #3, it was quiet.

Tamaki’s voice dropped, almost inaudible:

“I’m glad you’re here.”