Eclipsed: Echoes of a Forgotten Melody

Chapter One: The Restless Keys

Kyoto's outskirts were bathed in the golden hue of late afternoon, a quiet tranquility hanging over the narrow streets. Yet, within Ishikawa's small room, the serenity of the world beyond did nothing to quell the storm inside him. The pale glow of his computer screen, littered with endless tabs of chat rooms, gaming forums, and music playlists, seemed like a window into a life far more vibrant than his own. He hadn't spoken to anyone in person for days, unless you counted the occasional murmurs of greeting his family in passing.

Ishikawa was introverted, a ghost wandering the corners of his own existence. His friends-if he could call them that-were scattered across Japan, bound to him by nothing more than glowing text on a screen. There was Mai, always cheerful and understanding; Takumi, who could light up a room with his laugh; Seiichi, whose quietness rivaled Ishikawa's own but was punctuated by moments of unexpected wisdom; and Hattori, the artist with an air of unpredictability. They lived in the city, far from this rural quietude, attending universities that held dreams for them, while Ishikawa was stuck in the mire of community college, drifting aimlessly through his days.

His friends had been urging him to visit. "Come to Tokyo," they said. "It'll be good for you." And finally, after weeks of their gentle persuasion, he relented. The decision felt foreign in his mouth when he told them he'd come, as if someone else had spoken for him. But when the day of departure arrived, his nerves were unbearable.

The train was packed with strangers, and Ishikawa hid behind long sleeves, a baseball cap, and a mask that made him feel like an anonymous figure in a painting. Somewhere between towns, as the fields blurred into cityscapes, someone on the train commented on his appearance-a passing remark, thoughtlessly cruel. His anxiety swelled, his small bubble of comfort shattered, and by the time he arrived in Tokyo, he was a bundle of nervous energy, desperate to hide.

His friends didn't recognize him at first. Their voices echoed with confusion until Mai, perceptive as ever, was the one to break the tension with a soft, "Ishikawa? Is that you?" They stared at him, sizing up the figure before them. Shorter than they expected, quieter than they remembered, and burdened by something invisible yet palpable. Takumi's offhand comment about his height stung more than it should have, though Mai quickly apologized for her friend's insensitivity. Ishikawa couldn't muster a reply; the words lodged in his throat.

They took him to a nearby restaurant, where laughter and conversation flowed more easily. Ishikawa found comfort in the way the noise surrounded him, drowning out his inner turmoil. He watched them talk, mostly letting their voices wash over him. It wasn't until they decided to split the bill evenly that Ishikawa felt a small victory, as if this simple gesture allowed him to belong, to be part of something he had long since detached from.

Afterward, they wandered the campus grounds, a sprawling landscape of modern buildings framed by ancient trees. Hattori, ever the dedicated artist, excused himself for class, leaving the others to explore. They wandered aimlessly, until they stumbled upon a sight that made Ishikawa pause-a grand piano, left abandoned beneath a Sakura tree, its crimson red surface coated with years of dust.

"That's strange," Ishikawa muttered, pointing at the piano.

"Oh, that," Takumi said, eyes narrowing at the instrument. "Nobody touches it. It's been there for years. Rumor has it that it's haunted by Seito, the music instructor who died while playing it."

A chill ran through Ishikawa, though he tried to dismiss it. Yet something about the piano called to him, its silent presence pulling at the edges of his consciousness. Without realizing it, he moved closer, the others trailing behind him with uncertain expressions.

He had never played an instrument before, but the pull of the piano was undeniable. Before he knew it, he was seated on its bench, his hands hovering over the keys. The others watched in stunned silence as the piano lid creaked open, seemingly of its own accord. Time slowed, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Ishikawa felt something-or someone-move through him. His hands, moving as if guided by a force outside himself, touched the keys. The sound that followed wasn't his own, and yet it flowed through him, perfect and precise, a melody he didn't know but had always known.

His friends stared in shock as the music poured from the dusty piano, filling the air with a hauntingly beautiful rendition of Canon in D. The sound was pure, flawless, as though the years of neglect hadn't affected the instrument in the slightest. Ishikawa's fingers moved faster than his thoughts, the music spilling forth with a life of its own. It was as if Seito himself had returned, using Ishikawa's body as a vessel to finish what he had started long ago.

The world around him blurred, and for hours, he played music he had never learned, never practiced, flowing effortlessly from his hands. By the time the sun had set, his body collapsed, spent and trembling, the music finally ceasing. His friends rushed him to the hospital, panic gripping them as they waited for him to regain consciousness.

When Ishikawa awoke, the questions came. Mai, Takumi, and Seiichi hovered around him, concern etched on their faces. They asked him how he had done it, how someone with no training could play with such precision. Ishikawa had no answers, only a lingering sense of something beyond the physical world-a presence that had guided him, if only for a moment.

Yet in the days that followed, the piano haunted him. Not the sound, but the memory of it-the way it had called to him, the way he had felt compelled to play. And then came the dreams.

In these dreams, he saw Seito-his life, his passion, his heartbreak. The late instructor had been more than a musician; he had been a man filled with unspoken desires and unfinished business. Ishikawa awoke each night, the weight of Seito's story heavy on his chest. He knew, deep in his bones, that the hunting wasn't over. Seito had reached out to him for a reason, and now it was up to Ishikawa to uncover the truth.

As the days passed, Ishikawa found himself drawn back to the university. He made the decision, almost on impulse, to enroll in the music program. It felt reckless, irresponsible even, but there was no denying the pull he felt toward the piano, toward music. It was as if the universe-or perhaps Seito himself-was guiding him down this path.

What he didn't realize was that the journey ahead would be far more complex than mastering an instrument. Seito's haunting wasn't just a supernatural force; it was a story waiting to be unraveled, a tragedy intertwined with Ishikawa's own awakening passion. And as Ishikawa plunged deeper into his studies, balancing his newfound love for music with the weight of Seito's unfinished life, the line between their fates grew ever thinner.