(Hope you enjoy!)

  Children learn by watching their parents.

  When parents are passionate about something, that passion becomes a kind of unspoken nguage their children naturally absorb.

  Tenma Izumi was no exception.

  Her parents were both musicians in a successful house band.

  Her father pyed the guitar.

  Her mother, the keyboard.

  Among the two, it was her father who seemed utterly possessed by music.

  Whether at home, at work, or anywhere in between, he almost never let go of his guitar. His love for it was so fierce, so consuming, that those around him often joked he cradled his guitar longer than he held his own daughter.

  And Izumi harbored no resentment.

  Even from a young age, she was perceptive enough to find beauty in her father's hobby. To her, his work life was dazzling.

  "How is it, Izumi? This is where Daddy works.”

  "Awesome”

  "You—you better watch Izumi carefully.”

  "Don't worry, honey!"

  "I'm worried because it's you. Izumi, you have to stick with Dad, okay?"

  "Yeah. I will.”

  As expected from a house band, Izumi’s parents frequently visited the broadcasting station.

  It became a routine—no, a cherished ritual. Whenever te-night filming dragged on, they chose to bring Izumi along rather than leave her behind in the silence of an empty house.

  Before she realized it, the broadcasting station became her second home.

  Under its humming fluorescent lights and echoing hallways, Izumi witnessed tales unfold before her eyes.

  She saw a legendary rock band tear through the stage, their music shaking the very bones of the audience.

  She saw an idol, earnest but awkward, whose charm shone more like a neighborhood school art festival than a polished star.

  She saw a dancer who dominated the stage and evoke a charismatic empress

  She saw a romantic baldeer, his simple, heartfelt melodies weaving through the air like invisible threads that tied every listener to him.

  Each performance was different—grand or humble, polished or raw—but all shared one thing: the explosion of cheers that followed when a heart touched another.

  'That's so cool.’

  I want to be like that person.

  The interest that first bloomed from watching her parents grew into a deep yearning, a dream nurtured under the bright stage lights and the endless appuse that filled her childhood nights.

  A girl named Tenma Izumi had been nurturing a dream of becoming a singer in her heart—without even realizing it.

  The first challenge she faced was choosing a musical instrument.

  At first, Izumi learned casually, picking up skills from her parents. But when her progress stagnated, she took it upon herself to start over properly, asking for formal lessons and learning from scratch.

  She didn’t mind the hardships.

  Even when her delicate, slender hands blistered, wrapped in yers of day-bandages and reeking of disinfectant, she never once compined.

  The next challenge was singing.

  Izumi decided to seek vocal training from one of her father’s old friends—a seasoned professional.

  Whether it was the blood of musicians running through her veins, or a gift that was purely her own, Izumi’s growth in music was astonishing. Her skills blossomed at a breathtaking pace.

  One evening, at a drinking party after a long time apart, her father's friend—buzzed after just his first gss—began bragging about Izumi as if she were his own daughter.

  "Izumi, you mean? She could debut right now."

  "Haha, our Izumi?"

  Her father smiled awkwardly, feeling a mix of pride and disbelief at the flood of compliments.

  Of course, he was proud his daughter had inherited his talent.

  But at the same time, knowing all too well the brutal nature of the industry, he was hesitant to show too much excitement.

  Sensing his friend's unspoken concerns, the trainer leaned in and spoke with even more certainty.

  “I get it. You're worried. But listen—this time, it’s real. The kid’s just a bit reckless, that's all. Her skills already surpass mine. I'm honestly embarrassed to even teach her.”

  "Are you really saying that?"

  It had only been three months since the lessons had started.

  Yet according to him, Izumi’s singing had reached the level of a seasoned professional—someone who had been performing for over a decade.

  'Can that even be possible?'

  Her father couldn't help but question it. After all, this friend wasn’t just any instructor—he was known across Japan as one of the top vocal trainers, a man whose judgment was trusted industry-wide.

  In a business where reputation was everything, a friend's praise was as good as a certified guarantee.

  "If you’re really that doubtful," his friend said, chuckling, "why don’t you come to the training center with Izumi next time? I’m sure she'd be thrilled to sing just for her dad."

  "...Alright. Maybe I will. But you know, singing and pying an instrument aren’t the same thing."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know... there's a difference between skill and experience. Like, even if you’re technically good, can a kid really match the depth of someone who's lived more life?"

  "Isn’t it the same? Think about it. A ten-year-old can’t match the emotional depth of a fifty-year-old, whether it’s singing or pying."

  There’s a reason, after all, why remakes rarely surpass the originals.

  It’s not just about skill—it’s about expressiveness, symbolism, the memories woven into every note.

  A singer blessed with the voice of an angel still couldn't authentically sing about the bittersweet days of Japan’s bubble economy without having lived through it.

  Some emotions can only be unlocked through experience—and no amount of technical brilliance can truly repce that.??

  Songs are culture—and culture preserves memories, carrying them forward to the next generation.

  History may teach lessons, but it does not grant memories.

  You can project yourself into the spirit of an era, imagining what it must have been like, but you can never feel the memories that belonged to those who lived it firsthand.

  That privilege belongs solely to those who breathed the air of that time, who danced to its music, who lived and loved within its culture.

  The same truth applies to performance.

  No matter how monstrous your talent, no matter how relentless your effort, there is a gap that only time can bridge, a gap you can never completely close.

  Without experience, expressive power will always be limited.

  "But you said Izumi surpassed you…"

  His voice was hesitant, uncertain.

  "What I meant was purely technical," the friend replied, swirling his drink. "Even that is unbelievable, frankly. Technique isn't something you master overnight."

  Creating music is like training an athlete’s body.

  Without steady management and continuous practice, skills erode with age, slipping away little by little.

  Even the most gifted singers are not immune.

  Just as athletes sharpen themselves day after day to push the limits of their abilities, musicians must also polish themselves into something stronger, finer than they were yesterday.

  Only through that repetition—through day after day of sweat and struggle—do the muscles learn to move without thought, allowing expression to flow directly from the heart.

  Typically, it would take five, even ten years to reach that level.

  Yet Izumi, through an unreasonable stroke of natural genius, seemed to erase those ten years of hard-earned investment within just three months.

  He could only look at his friend, who continued to boast, with a twinge of pity.

  'If it were me... I wouldn’t have been able to endure it.'

  He, too, had his pride.

  If someone told him that the tower he had painstakingly built over a decade had been overshadowed by a girl who had barely begun, even if that girl was his own daughter, it would have broken his heart.

  And yet, his friend sat there smiling easily, the weight of it seemingly not touching him.

  Why does he look so calm? he wondered, studying the rexed grin on his friend's face.

  The friend slung an arm around his shoulder and leaned in, speaking low and firm:

  "I’m telling you—your daughter is a genius. A real one. A genius like no other. When she debuts, she could aim to become the next great singer."

  "That’s absurd," he muttered. "No matter how good our daughter is, she’s not that good. How could you even compare her to Kahi?"

  As someone who had come from a house band, he had witnessed Kahi’s performances countless times.

  Sometimes from the backstage.

  Sometimes mingled among the roaring crowds.

  Gahee was not merely talented—she was untouchable.

  She existed in a realm beyond reach, where no amount of skill or effort could casually lead.

  A realm reserved for true monsters of talent—those rare souls who transcended even the bel of "genius" through overwhelming, undeniable brilliance.

  She was the summit of popur music, the embodiment of a title that countless aspired to, but almost none could ever hope to attain.

  That was the glorious position Kahi held—The Queen, the undisputed Queen of Pop.

  "It might be hard to believe. I understand," his friend said, voice heavy with sincerity. "But your daughter... She's real. She intuitively grasps the things we spend years struggling to tame—muscle control, breathing patterns, performance habits—like it’s second nature to her. It’s like she sees the world differently than we do. Do you know how shocked I was?.”

  His friend gave a bitter smile and poured himself another drink.

  "So, what will you do? Are you really not interested? If you want, I can recommend her to a good entertainment agency."

  "Ask the child first, her opinion is what matters most."

  "She’ll definitely say yes.”

  From there, the conversation blurred.

  He drank mechanically, gss after gss, not tasting, not thinking.

  By the time he stumbled home from the company dinner, his mind was swimming and the world felt distant—until he saw her.

  His daughter was sitting on the porch, quietly fiddling with her guitar.

  'A monster,' he thought, the words fshing through his drunken haze.

  Suddenly, all the alcohol-induced fog in his brain evaporated.

  "My daughter, are you tuning the guitar?.”

  "Yeah," she replied without looking up.

  As he approached, Izumi wrinkled her nose and frowned.

  "Dad, you reek of alcohol..."

  "Really? Sniff sniff... I don't know, I don't smell anything," he joked weakly.

  But when Izumi dramatically covered her mouth and nose with both hands and stumbled backward like a cartoon character, he could only chuckle awkwardly, and retreat to wash up and brush his teeth before coming back.

  Once clean, he returned to find her still practicing, her small fingers confidently adjusting the strings.

  "Is this how you do it?" she asked, holding the guitar up for inspection.

  "Yeah. Our Izumi really learns fast," he said, ruffling her hair affectionately.

  "Hmph.”

  He sat down beside her, feeling the weight of the evening settle again on his shoulders.

  Timidly, he asked, "Izumi... why do you sing?"

  Izumi tilted her head, thinking seriously.

  "Because I like it?.”

  He watched her, feeling something fragile and precious stir inside him.

  "My friend said... you're a real genius," he said carefully. "That you could debut right now if you wanted. He said all you have to do is ask."

  He held his breath as he asked the next question, afraid of the answer.

  "Do you want to debut?"

  Izumi blinked, thoughtful.

  "I don't know," she said simply.

  It wasn't rejection.

  It was a genuine, searching answer—a question within a question.

  I want to be like them.

  But... should I debut just because of that?

  Is it really okay for me to become a singer?

  But compared to them, her own presence felt so small.

  Izumi had never been confident in her abilities, not from the moment she was born.

  Maybe it was because she grew up watching such extraordinary people that she had developed the quiet habit of underestimating herself.

  The sudden praise, calling her a "genius," didn't feel real.

  If anything, it only deepened her doubts.

  The man who praised her so freely in front of her father, the same man who called her a prodigy, was unrelenting during their lessons.

  He never spared words of encouragement lightly.

  In css, he was strict, ruthless even, pushing Izumi through grueling exercises and complex techniques without mercy, sharpening her skill day after day.

  To an outsider, it might have looked like he was venting frustration or anger.

  But Izumi understood: it was because he expected more from her.

  Because he believed she could reach heights she couldn't yet see.

  Even so, she needed something tangible.

  Something real to prove her talent to herself.

  Without it, she couldn’t summon the confidence to stand before an unseen audience.

  She was terrified of the broadcast stage, the stage where there was no safety net, no second chances.

  That night, Izumi never answered her father's question.

  And by the next morning, her father acted as if the conversation had never happened.

  For that, Izumi was quietly grateful.

  It was better this way.

  Instead of rushing toward a debut she wasn’t ready for, Izumi turned her gaze elsewhere.

  She set her sights on a different dream: a band.

  She needed to test herself.

  To prove, not to others—but to herself—whether she truly had what it took.

  ‘Okay, let’s do it.’

  Sensing deep down that she wouldn't achieve what she truly wanted by debuting prematurely, Izumi gathered a few schoolmates who had some musical experience and formed a band.

  They named it BARD.

  Though unknown to the outside world, BARD quickly became a sensation within their school, enjoying an overwhelming popurity rare for a student group.

  But beneath the surface, Izumi’s challenge faltered.

  Despite their enthusiastic start, despite the attention they gathered, their activities from middle school to high school never grew beyond basic covers and arrangements of popur songs.

  They were, in the end, just a typical school band.

  No bold musical experiments.

  No original songs that captured the soul.

  No true artistic breakthroughs.

  Naturally, neither the public nor entertainment agencies paid them any mind.

  BARD simply wasn’t unique enough to demand even a few precious minutes of anyone’s serious attention.

  At first, the band had been full of joy and excitement—but over time, the energy dulled.

  The rehearsals grew infrequent.

  The members' motivation withered.

  Eventually, citing preparations for their college entrance exams, they quietly began to drift apart.

  And just like that, BARD disappeared—

  Without leaving a single mark on the world.

  It meant one simple thing.

  Failure.

  "No talent..." Izumi whispered to herself.

  When failure came, doubts soon hardened into certainties.

  Izumi realized, with a hollow ache in her chest, that she was not like the singers who lit up the stage.

  She cked that irrepceable brilliance—the kind of effortless, magnetic talent that separated legends from dreamers.

  In the world of art and music, the absence of such a gift could be enough to crush a spirit entirely.

  But Izumi did not falter.

  Instead, she turned her eyes to a different path, and steeled herself with a new determination.

  ‘If I don't have talent, then I’ll hone my senses to the limit.’

  ‘Even if I can't reach the top, I'll climb high enough that someone, somewhere, will recognize me.’

  The first step was to face herself.

  She tore apart every piece of her past failures, ying them bare.

  Nearly a year ter, BARD came back together.

  At her invitation, every member returned, no hesitation in their voices.

  She wasn’t the only one haunted by regret—the others had carried it too, quietly, in their own ways.

  And so they reunited, pouring their hearts into their first original song.

  It was raw.

  It was imperfect.

  It was clumsy.

  But it was theirs.

  For their first performance of it, they chose a park—a pce known for buskers, for wandering audiences.

  A pce where they could be seen.

  Or ignored.

  ‘This is it.’

  ‘My st chance to prove I have anything at all.’

  Izumi understood it instinctively: if she failed here, she wouldn't try again.

  She would slip quietly into the background, living out her days without dreams, without defiance.

  The night of the performance came.

  The park was dark, the trail barely illuminated by scattered streetlights.

  People passed by, faceless shapes in the night, their footsteps hollow against the pavement.

  No one looked up.

  No one slowed down.

  Izumi clutched the microphone, her palms slick with sweat.

  Her heart thundered in her ears.

  ‘Make them look at you.’

  ‘Somehow, do it.’

  The music began—soft, hesitant.

  Izumi took a breath, and sang.

  For the first time in her life, she didn't rely on technique, or habit, or training.

  She sang from somewhere deeper—from the raw, pleading pce inside her that she had kept locked away.

  Every word was a prayer.

  Every note was a reaching hand.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Even if it’s just one person.’

  ‘Please, hear us.’

  ‘Please, notice that we are here.’

  The song flowed out into the darkness, fragile and aching.

  She kept singing, even as people walked past without a gnce, even as the fear twisted her stomach tighter with every second of indifference.

  The final note faded into the night.

  For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

  Izumi stood frozen, the weight of failure crushing her chest, the tears already stinging behind her eyes.

  And then—

  Cp.

  A single pair of hands.

  Cpping.

  The sound echoed through the night like a miracle.

  Cp. Cp.

  The appuse grew louder, slowly at first, then stronger.

  Izumi stood still, stunned.

  For the first time, her desperate voice—her raw, aching hope—

  Had reached someone.

  Had reached the sky itself.

  ********

  Fshback: Tenma Izumi – Complete –

  ********