Gentle as Water

Murakami Suzune approached the desk, her movements a study in silent grace, and placed the silver tray beside the heavy, leather-bound books. Haruka saw a small, whimsical arrangement of bear-shaped cookies, still warm from the oven, next to a delicate fan of thinly sliced apple and glistening cubes of mango that looked like amber sugar cubes. Beside the plate was a glass of clear, cool water.

Haruka was thirsty and drank the water in one go. Without a word, Suzune immediately refilled the glass for him.

It was already noon.

He had no appetite, his mind still a turbulent sea from the events of the morning, but he couldn’t bear the quiet, hopeful look in Suzune’s eyes. Left with no choice, he picked up one of the bear-shaped cookies.

It was surprisingly warm, the biscuit giving way to a rich, molten chocolate filling. It was delicious. Despite his mood, a second bite followed the first, and he found himself finishing the whole thing without realizing it.

“Are the cookies to your liking, Young Master?” Suzune asked, a small, relieved smile touching her lips.

“They’re very good,” Haruka said honestly, “but I’m just…”

“Lunch will be served soon,” Suzune interrupted gently, saving him from having to voice the words ‘I’m not in the mood.’ “Just one or two to tide you over is enough.”

A sudden thought occurred to him. “Did you make these?”

“Yes,” Suzune said, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I’m just happy they are to your taste, Young Master.”

Haruka glanced at the artfully cut fruit, then at the simple glass of water. She’s so thoughtful, he realized. Anyone else would have brought me tea by rote, but she remembered I don’t like it and brought water instead.

He was touched by a consideration so quiet it was almost invisible. Even though he had no appetite, he picked up another cookie and took a small, deliberate bite.

Suzune felt a sweetness bloom in her own heart, as if she had eaten a cookie herself. When I’m feeling down, I always eat something sweet, she thought. Perhaps it will help the Young Master feel a little better, too.

But when she saw that even after the sweet treat, Haruka’s mood remained somber, the shadows still clinging to him, her own spirits fell in sympathy. I have to find a way to cheer him up, she resolved.

But she didn’t have any particular talent for entertainment. She was at a loss, until her eyes fell upon the grand piano standing silently in the corner. “Young Master,” she said, her voice soft, “perhaps I could play a song for you?”

“You know how to play the piano?” Haruka asked, genuinely surprised.

“I learned a little when I was a child,” Suzune said with a modest smile. “I don’t know how much I remember. Please don’t laugh if I make a mistake.”

“Just play, please” Haruka said, a real smile finally touching his lips, chasing some of the gloom from his eyes. “You may know a little, but I don’t know how to play at all. Even if you make a mistake, Suzune, I won’t be able to tell.”

“Then, if you’ll excuse my poor performance.”

Murakami Suzune sat down at the piano. After a moment of simple preparation, Haruka saw her entire demeanor shift. The quiet, humble maid vanished, replaced by an artist. Her fingers, light and nimble, tested a few notes, and then a beautiful, gentle melody began to flow from her fingertips, filling the quiet study.

Even as a complete novice, Haruka could tell the difference between good and bad music. He felt a gentle warmth in the melody, a melancholy without bitterness. It brought back memories of the rare, quiet moments with his mother, of a love that was present but never spoken. This music is so beautiful, he thought. It’s like… it’s like…

He was at a loss for words, unable to find the right term to describe the beautiful, heart-aching piece. He watched Suzune as she played, a heartfelt, serene smile on her face, and his own mood began to lift, soothed by the notes. The music, he finally decided, is as gentle as Suzune herself.

Before he knew it, the final, lingering note had faded into silence.

“What is that song called? It’s beautiful,” Haruka asked.

“I… I don’t remember, Young Master,” Suzune said in a low voice. She lied, of course. How could she forget? The piece was called I Just Want to Quietly Wait for You, by an Italian female composer. It was about separating from a loved one, but it was not a song of sorrow. It was a song of blessing, of playing music by a window, waiting quietly, patiently. It was a simple, well-known piece, but to play it with such feeling was exceedingly difficult. Suzune didn’t know why she had chosen to play such a challenging and deeply meaningful song. And so, when Haruka asked for its name, she was too shy to tell him the truth.

Haruka walked over to the piano. “May I try?”

“Of course, Young Master,” Suzune said with a warm smile.

She moved aside, and Haruka sat down. The polished leather of the bench was still faintly warm from her. He looked at the expanse of black and white keys, unsure where to even begin. He pressed a few at random, producing a chaotic, jarring jumble of sounds that shattered the fragile peace she had created.

He felt that he had defiled the instrument with his clumsy playing. His earlier sorrow, briefly abated by her music, came rushing back with a vengeance. “I can’t play this thing,” he said, his voice flat with dejection.

Murakami Suzune laughed softly. “Young Master, you mustn’t be so hard on yourself. The piano is something that requires guidance to even begin. No one can just sit down and play.”

“Suzune, how long have you been practicing?” Haruka asked.

“I started when I was four,” she said with a gentle smile.

“Four years old?” Haruka was stunned. “You’ve been in the Fujiwara house since you were a child?”

“As a maid, one must have a few presentable skills,” Suzune said without a trace of self-pity, her voice calm and matter-of-fact. “Playing the piano is the only thing I’m remotely good at. I don’t know how many times my hands were rapped for mistakes to reach this clumsy level. To an expert, it would be laughable, but if it can serve to bring a smile to your face, Young Master, then my years of hard work have not been in vain.”

Haruka thought she was being far too modest. Even he, a complete amateur, could hear the profound skill in her playing.

“I’ll be thirteen in a few months,” Haruka said. “If you started at four, how many years will it take for me to reach your level?”

“Heaven rewards the diligent, Young Master,” Suzune said with an encouraging smile. “As long as you practice, you will catch up one day. And the most important thing in piano is talent. If someone as foolish as me can learn, then a person as intelligent as you, Young Master, will surely surpass me in just a few years.”

“You’re just trying to cheer me up again,” Haruka said, but he couldn’t help but smile at her praise. Suddenly, he felt a weight on his back, and the faint, clean scent of lilies filled the air.

Haruka froze. He saw two slender, graceful hands, like stalks of bamboo, gently rest on his own. Suzune’s soft voice was a warm breath behind him. “Young Master, shall we play a little together?”

His heart fluttered like the notes of a song.

“Okay,” he said, his own voice barely a whisper.

He watched as his fingers and hers danced together on the keys. It was only a few short, simple notes, not even a melody, but in the quiet space between them, the shared touch, the shared breath, it was enough to compose a grand, silent symphony in their hearts.

An impulse, sudden and powerful, surged through Haruka—the desire to simply close his hand over hers, to hold those beautiful, talented fingers. Such beautiful hands, he thought, the thought an ache in his chest. But the impulse was a fleeting spark, quickly extinguished by the cold, heavy shadow that still lingered in the back of his mind: the unresolved, tormenting matter of his “birth mother.”