The room always smelled faintly of antiseptic, with the occasional sweetness of flowers that Kaori’s classmates brought. But the first thing you always noticed when you stepped inside was her.

She sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, hair slightly messy from napping, sunlight spilling over her like a lazy spotlight. Her violin rested on the chair beside the bed, and the moment her eyes found you, that familiar grin broke across her face — bright, stubborn, refusing to show even a hint of weakness.

“You’re late,” she teased, though you were right on time.

You didn’t argue. You just set your bag down by the little upright piano tucked into the corner of her hospital room — a gift from the nurses who had gotten used to your visits.

“Play something,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. “It’s too quiet in here without you.”