Eight years later.
The quiet boy with messy hair had grown taller, sharper —
but silence still clung to him like a second skin.
Shun never cared much for the attention.
Even now, at sixteen, people knew his name.
Some whispered it in the hallway like a rumor.
Others followed him after class just to catch a glance.
He didn't smile.
He didn't wave.
And when girls passed him folded notes or shy glances...
He simply looked away.
Not because he was cold.
But because he never forgot the one girl who simply stayed — even in his silence.
---
It had been years since Mika left.
But some memories refused to fade — like ink spilled on a white shirt.
Shun had changed.
Taller. Sharper.
He wasn't just the quiet kid anymore.
Now… he was the lead vocalist of a band.
---
There was Riku — wild-haired, sarcastic, always chewing gum even in detention.
The bassist who never tuned his strings until five minutes before practice.
Then there was Euro — tall, steady, and quiet in his own way.
He rarely talked, but his drumming said more than most people ever could.
And Miro — the overconfident flirt with a heart that beat pure music.
He played guitar like he was born with it in his hands.
And then… there was Shun.
Main vocalist. Electric guitar.
The quiet storm behind the mic.
---
They named themselves Light of the Night — and for the four of them, it meant more than just music.
They were like brothers.
No blood, but bonded tight by dreams, chords, and every late-night practice where they failed together, laughed together, and kept going anyway.
Every lunch break, they sat on the roof.
Every weekend, they practiced in Euro's garage, the neighbors complaining about the noise and secretly loving it.
They were planning to debut soon.
Some producer had heard a leaked video and wanted to meet them.
Riku was hyped. Miro couldn't shut up about stage outfits.
Even Euro grinned a little more than usual.
But Shun… he stayed silent.
His voice only came alive when he sang.
---
And sometimes, when no one else was around…
He'd play that one old tune.
It wasn't something he wrote.
It was something she used to hum — soft, messy, and off-key.
A sound that used to fill the quiet space between them.
He never told her, but he remembered it.
Now, his fingers found it on the strings without thinking.
Not perfectly, not cleanly —
but enough to feel like she was there again.
Mika never heard the guitar version.
But somehow, it always brought her back.
---
That night, after practice, Shun walked alone.
He didn't follow the others to eat.
Didn't head straight home either.
Instead, he ended up at that same small live venue tucked between buildings —
dim lights, worn stage, and a small crowd that never asked questions.
He'd been there before.
Many times.
Not to perform.
Not to talk.
Just to sit in the back and listen.
It was one of the few places where no one expected him to speak.
He slipped in, took his usual spot, and leaned back.
Some band was finishing their set, the sound vibrating faintly through his chest.
He didn't care who was on stage.
Didn't even look.
He just needed to breathe.
To exist quietly.
---
The night felt still — quiet in a way that matched him.
He came here often — not for the music, not for the people.
Just because it was quiet.
A place where he didn't have to speak.
He stayed a little longer before walking away.