When Satsuki walked into the recording studio, Sachiko was scrambling to gather the sheet music scattered across the mixing console.
"Don't bother," Satsuki said.
Sachiko froze. She was still clutching two sheets of paper, covered in dense, overlapping pencil marks.
"I'm so sorry, Ms. Saionji. I didn't expect you to come. It's a mess in here…"
Satsuki waved a hand dismissively and pulled up a chair to sit beside the piano.
"It's fine. I'm not here to watch you do housework. If anything, this kind of messy environment feels more like a 'musician's' space."
She glanced at the sheet music but didn't reach out to flip through it.
"Three years," Satsuki said casually.
"Yes," Sachiko said, placing the papers back on the mixing console and settling back onto the piano bench. "Three years, two months, and eleven days."
Satsuki glanced at her.
Sachiko gave a faint smile.
"I didn't count on purpose. The day I signed the contract happened to be my younger brother's birthday, so I've always remembered it."
"A younger brother?"
"Yes, back home." Sachiko's fingers rested unconsciously on the keys, without pressing down. "He got into high school this year, using the money I sent back."
Satsuki didn't pursue the topic. Her gaze fell on the half-finished canned coffee on the edge of the mixing console—a fine layer of condensation on the aluminum can indicated it had been sitting there for a while.
"You always drink this?"
Sachiko followed her gaze. "Yes. From the vending machine downstairs. One hundred and twenty yen."
"How many cans a day?"
"Two. Sometimes three." Sachiko thought for a moment. "I drink a bit more when recording long pieces."
Satsuki reached out to pick up the coffee and glanced at the brand—it was the most common type of black canned coffee, with a high sugar content. She put it back down.
"I prefer black tea," Satsuki said. "I've barely changed since I was a child. The servants know that if the weight of the tea leaves is even slightly off, I can taste it in one sip."
Sachiko looked at her.
"Habit is a powerful thing," Satsuki's voice softened. "It can turn a temporary shelter into a house you think you've lived in forever. When you look back—the door is still open, but you've already forgotten what it looks like outside."
Sachiko's fingers hovered over the keys for a moment.
She didn't reply. But Satsuki noticed that her breathing rhythm had changed.
It slowed by half a beat.
I see.
Satsuki pieced it together in her mind: the momentary hesitation Itakura had shown in the hallway, the faint mist in Sachiko's eyes, and the somewhat… overly comfortable silence permeating this recording studio.
Ms. Sachiko, you need to be stronger.
She didn't point it out.
"Ms. Sachiko, in these three years… is there anything that left a deep impression on you?"
Sachiko thought for a while.
"Last month, the recording engineer mentioned something to me." Sachiko's gaze landed on the piano keyboard. "He said he went to sing karaoke on the weekend, and in the next booth, a girl was singing the guide vocal track I recorded. There was a breathy technique in the chorus—she couldn't quite hit it, but she tried it over and over, four times."
"Four times." Sachiko repeated the number. Her voice was flat, but there was a faint curve at the corners of her mouth.
"I went back to my apartment that night and lay in bed thinking for a long time." Sachiko's voice became even softer. "I was thinking—if only she knew it was me singing."
Satsuki listened quietly until she finished.
She was silent for a few seconds.
"That girl," Satsuki began, her voice very light. "She was practicing your breathy transition repeatedly. You knew about this, you remembered this—you've been remembering it for a long time."
Sachiko nodded slightly.
"But if one day," Satsuki's pace didn't change, each word falling deliberately, "her company goes bankrupt, her savings run out, and she has no more money to go to karaoke."
The air conditioner in the recording studio hummed.
"And you, still in this recording studio, recording the next perfect guide vocal track."
Satsuki looked into Sachiko's eyes.
"Will the connection between you and her break because she disappears? Or, from the very beginning, was that connection only on your end?"
Sachiko pulled her hand back from the keys.
She didn't answer.
But her fingertips clenched on her knees—the movement was very small, but Satsuki saw it.
She leaned back in her chair, moving her gaze from Sachiko to one of the sound-absorbing walls of the studio.
"In the last six months, I've been to many places." Her tone suddenly became more relaxed, as if making small talk. "The United States, China, and several bankrupt factories in Japan's Kanto region."
She paused for a beat.
"When the factories closed, workers lined up at the door to collect their final month's wages. There was an old master worker in his fifties. His hands were covered in calluses, and metal powder was embedded in his fingernails—the kind that can never be washed off in a lifetime. After he got his money, he stood at the door and smoked a cigarette."
Satsuki's voice had no inflection.
"When I walked past him, a song was playing on his radio. It was very quiet, hard to hear clearly. But he stood there without moving, listening until the song finished before crushing the cigarette butt."
She turned back to look at Sachiko.
"In this era, it's not easy for ordinary people to live."
"They need something. Whether it's to vent, to forget, or just… a reason to feel like they can make it through tomorrow."
Sachiko's throat moved slightly.
"Your voice is already doing that," Satsuki said. "Four hundred and twenty-seven guide vocal tracks, thirteen thousand machines. Every day, people in booths are singing, crying, laughing, or just spacing out along with your voice."
"But the source of that comfort. That living, breathing person with a face of her own—she is absent."
Satsuki tapped her fingers lightly on the armrest of the chair.
"People don't know who the comfort comes from. And they have no way to say thank you to a shadow."
Sachiko lowered her head.
It was quiet for a long time.
So long that Satsuki thought she wasn't going to respond.
"…I'm afraid."
Sachiko's voice was very low. So low it almost blended in with the sound of the air conditioning airflow.
"I'm afraid that after I stand up there, this affection will change." Her fingers twisted together. "In this recording studio, I only need to face the microphone. The microphone won't judge me. If I record it badly, I can do it again. But if I stand outside—"
She looked up at Satsuki.
"If one day, I discover that what I care about has become the volume of applause, the height of the rankings, how many records have been sold… then I will have betrayed music."
Her eyes were a bit red, but there were no tears.
"That is far more terrifying than singing poorly."
Satsuki didn't answer immediately.
She looked into Sachiko's eyes for about three seconds.
Then she spoke.
"Purity is not a vacuum."
"True purity is knowing why you sing, no matter where you are, and continuing to sing. The recording studio has protected your purity—but it has also locked it in a box. You don't know if it can withstand being dropped."
She leaned forward slightly.
"Stepping outside means putting this thing into a noisier place to see if it will break. If it breaks—it means it was fragile to begin with. If it doesn't break—"
She didn't finish.
But Sachiko understood.
Satsuki leaned back. After two seconds of silence, her voice suddenly became very soft.
"My mother's name was Yuriko."
Sachiko looked up.
"She passed away very early." Satsuki's gaze fell on the piano's lacquered surface, which reflected a blurry, dark cyan hue. "I have very few memories of her—almost only a few images left."
She paused.
"When she was alive, she would occasionally play the piano. She played very casually, just little tunes." Satsuki's fingers traced unconsciously on the chair's armrest. "When I was very young, something happened at home. My father kept the door locked in his study, and the servants walked with hushed steps. The atmosphere in the whole house was terrifying."
She stopped.
"My mother sat in front of the piano in the living room and played a very simple piece. The melody was short, just those few notes repeated over and over. But after she finished playing, the air in the whole room changed."
She withdrew her hand.
"The power of sound is sometimes more effective than anything you can say."
She didn't continue.
"I'm sorry…"
Sachiko's head was deeply bowed.
Satsuki pulled a thin document from the briefcase she had brought.
On the cover, four characters were written in pencil—"Theme Concert".
She placed the document on the music stand in front of Sachiko.
"This is a preliminary plan." Her tone returned to that steady pitch. "What the company needs is not an idol built from flashbulbs and screams."
"That kind of idol, as long as you have money, you can pile up as many as you want."
She looked at Sachiko.
"But Sachiko, you are different."
"You are someone who can help people sort through their emotions with your singing. Debuting is not to turn you into a star, but to give that ever-present comfort a clear source, and a ritual that can continue."
Sachiko lowered her head and opened the cover.
The content inside was less than she had expected. A few pages, loosely laid out, with plenty of blank space—evidently intentional, left for her to fill in.
The core idea was simple: No large-scale commercial performances or variety shows in the beginning. Start from small theaters and community centers in the midst of the depression. A series of concerts themed around "Tiny Hope". Song selection would be decided by Sachiko herself.
The last line was handwritten—in Satsuki's handwriting, thin and upright:
"Sing the songs you want to sing, for the people you want to see. The size of the stage doesn't matter. What matters is—you want that girl in the karaoke booth to see you."
Sachiko stared at that line for a long time.
Her fingers slid unconsciously onto the piano keys.
No one spoke. There was only the hum of the air conditioner in the recording studio.
Then—
Ding.
A single note.
The note echoed between the sound-absorbing walls of the recording studio for a second, then faded away.
But that note—the moment Sachiko heard it herself, her whole body stiffened for a beat.
That's it.
The chorus she had revised three versions of, the missing starting point—this was the note.
It had been here all along.
On the forty-ninth key of this piano. She had played it a thousand times, but had never pressed it at the "right" moment.
Until now.
Satsuki had already stood up and gently pushed the chair back to its original position.
When she walked to the door, she paused.
"The company—" She paused here, seemingly weighing her words.
Then she corrected herself.
"No, it's me."
She didn't turn back.
"I will be your strongest support."
Having said that, she pushed the door open and walked out.
…
Itakura was waiting in the hallway. His back was against the wall, and when he saw Satsuki come out, he immediately straightened up.
"Sachiko's guide vocal recording volume will be halved starting next month," Satsuki's voice was very low. "Use the freed-up time for her free composition and rehearsals. Three months."
Itakura's mouth moved.
"Young Miss, are you going to—"
"The things you want to ask, she will tell you herself."
Satsuki strode toward the elevator. Itakura watched her back, the report booklet in his hand crinkling under his grip.
…
Sachiko sat alone in the recording studio.
She looked toward the direction the door had closed. A certain aura that had remained in the air after Satsuki left was being dispersed by the air conditioning airflow.
She lowered her head and looked again at the plan on the music stand.
Then her gaze slid to the scattered sheet music beside her. The pencil marks were deep and shallow, and the paper was fuzzy where the eraser had been used.
She picked up the pencil.
This time, her hand did not hesitate. The tip of the pencil landed on the third line of the staff, and then moved quickly—notes poured out one after another, like a valve suddenly opened on a long-clogged water pipe.
Chorus. The fourth version.
This time, it felt right.
…
At the same time. Third floor of S.A. Group headquarters.
Managing Director Endo's fax machine rang again.
He put down the report on the registration progress of the Jena office and walked over to collect the paper.
It was an internal circular from Satsuki.
The content was brief:
"To Managing Director Endo. The S.A. PrecisionOpticsGmbH Jena recruitment plan has officially started. The first list of target personnel is being confirmed. Please accelerate the contact plan for the mid-level handling personnel of the custodial bureau."
Managing Director Endo clipped the fax paper into a folder. He walked back to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed the number for Frankfurt.
Outside the window, October's Tokyo was sinking into the twilight.
The neon lights in the direction of Ginza were a little dimmer than last year.
…
8:00 PM. Small conference room at S.A. Entertainment headquarters.
Itakura sat at the head of the long table. Spread out in front of him was the copy of the "Theme Concert" plan Satsuki had left behind. Four people were gathered around the table—two managers from the planning department, a publicity manager, and a logistics coordinator responsible for venues.
"This is the direction Young Miss decided on this afternoon," Itakura's voice was half a tone lower than usual. "Sachiko Kamachi's debut plan. Initially, the main venues will be small theaters and community centers, in the form of theme concerts. Song selection is to be decided by the artist herself."
A planning department manager flipped through two pages and looked up.
"Mr. Itakura. Doing this kind of non-commercial theme performance during an economic downturn—venue rental, equipment, publicity, personnel—it's all cost. There is almost no box office return in the short term. The risk and return…"
He didn't finish.
Itakura glanced at him.
"This is the strategy Young Miss determined personally."
The conference room was silent for three seconds.
Then there was the sound of turning pages, the sound of unscrewing pen caps, and someone had already cleared their throat and started discussing alternative venue options.
Itakura leaned back, his fingers clasped under the table.
He remembered the sentence Satsuki had said when she walked out of the rehearsal room that afternoon—"Not too much, not too little."
Then he straightened his body and joined the discussion.
Fairness, in itself, is the greatest privilege.
…
Late night.
Most of the lights at S.A. Entertainment headquarters were already out. The emergency lights in the corridor emitted a dark orange glow, illuminating the guide lines on the floor like a long, thin river.
The door to the recording studio was closed.
But the lights were on inside.
Sachiko turned off the playback equipment for the work-related guide vocal tracks. She turned on her own private four-track recorder—a machine Itakura had approved for her in her second year of employment. The tape compartment was a bit loose, and there was occasionally a slight background noise when recording. But she had always used it.
She sat at the piano.
She took a deep breath.
Her left hand pressed a chord.
It was the extension of that single note—from a seed, roots and branches grew.
Her right hand played the melody. Chorus. The fourth version.
She opened her mouth toward the microphone.
The first line of lyrics slid out of her throat. The voice was not loud, the breath was steady, the mid-range was full, and there was a faint, delicate tremor at the end of the rhyme—coming from a gate deep within her chest that had just been pushed open.
The content of the lyrics was simple.
About a beam of light leaking in through a crack in the window.
About a voice, passing through the tape, passing through the speaker, passing through the partition of the booth—
Falling into the ears of a stranger.
The recorder's tape was turning quietly.
The red recording indicator light was on, reflecting on Sachiko's face.
She kept singing.