[Short Story] He Dances, There Is the Sound of a Piano

Urara is dead.

The obituary of an ex-lover I haven't seen in fifteen years.
With the development of social media, the first news of such things doesn't even come through word of mouth anymore.

The premature death of a Japanese ballet dancer who was once active seems to be just right for lining up easy words of mourning, and even though it has been a long time since she disappeared from the public eye, everyone mourned her with a face as if she were someone close to them.
It's a commotion that would make the person herself laugh up her sleeve if she saw it.

Urara is dancing on the small screen that was shared and made its way to my timeline. A gala concert right after she moved her base overseas. Around this time, we were still dating.

I hesitated about going to the funeral, but in the end, I decided to go.
The funeral hall was more accessible than I had imagined, and it was clean and bright.
The heavy-looking wooden door at the entrance turned out to be an automatic door when I got close, and it opened silently to the side the moment I stood there.
Unbelievably bright sunlight poured in from the atrium's glass windows, and the entrance was filled with sparkling light.

In the center of that light, on a black leather bench, the living Urara was sitting.

Nothing has changed from the old days.
Long eyelashes, a high bridge of the nose, an angel who stepped out of a Western painting.
I can hear classical music that is perfect for gazing at an angel.
I can't tell if I'm really hearing that sound or if it's a melody playing in my head on its own. Gould playing the Goldberg Variations. A piece Urara liked.

Urara, who was just a brat with a temper, more like a devil than an angel, who would only spout complaints and selfishness if she opened her mouth, even though she looked like a beautiful statue if she kept quiet.

For a moment, I didn't know where I was.
Not knowing, and following that impulse,

Urara?

I called out.

As if responding to the call, Urara slowly turned back to me and blinked.
And then,
Are you an acquaintance of my uncle? she said.

I felt like the spell had been broken.
It couldn't be Urara. Urara remains young, and I am the only one who has aged to meet her.

If I looked closely, it was a boy who could still be called a youth. He was wearing a black stand-up collar uniform, perhaps the uniform of the school he attends.

It's not Urara.

The Goldberg Variations are still playing.
Perhaps it is being played on the audio system in the venue.

Do I look that much like her?

He chuckled at me, unable to continue the conversation due to the embarrassment of my mistake, and stood up to face me.

The way he laughed, a little bit unpleasant, was like Urara.
I feel like he is a little taller than Urara. I'm not sure. Because it was such a long time ago.

Are you, Urara, no, Urasawa-kun's...
I'm his nephew.
Nice to meet you, the boy said, bowing his head to me.

Uncle.
It's a word that doesn't suit Urara very well.

I am sorry for your loss.
Along with the words I barely managed to spit out, I also bowed my head. Urara's nephew, who looked a lot like Urara, shrugged his shoulders in a light manner.

"Thank you for coming."
"You are,"

What was I about to say after 'You are'? My mouth, which had opened perfunctorily, was interrupted by a woman's sharp voice.

"Haru-kun!"

Thinking my name had been called, I turned around.
At the same time, the man in front of me responded to that voice,
"What?"
A woman in mourning clothes was peering into the entrance where we were from the hallway.
Without even glancing at me, the woman said,
"It's about to start, so come over here,"
and then she left the hallway with the pitter-patter of her footsteps.

Once the woman was gone, the surroundings were deathly quiet, and it was hard to believe that people had gathered for a funeral.
In the bright entrance, it was just me and him, as it had been before.

"Haru-san,"

Urara's nephew said abruptly.
I looked at him, startled.

"It really is Haru-san. You're a pianist, aren't you?"

With a face that looked like he had successfully pulled off a prank, he smiled with a face that was the spitting image of Urara.

"I used to be. I'm not a pianist anymore."

I often played the piano to accompany Urara's practice. In a small, dirty studio where the air conditioning barely worked. Because he danced over and over again, I played the same song over and over again.

"I'm a dancer, too. My uncle taught me."
I couldn't imagine Urara teaching anyone anything.

"I've been practicing to your piano."

I thought, no way.
I meant to laugh it off as a joke, but I fell silent when I recognized the USB he had casually pulled from his pocket.

I had recorded my piano playing just once for Urara's lessons.
It wasn't something I was asked to do. I just thought it might be useful, so I recorded it on my own. Urara didn't seem particularly happy when he accepted the USB, and he never used it in front of me.

And yet, he has it.

"I'm so happy to be able to meet you, Haru-san."

What was Urara thinking when he taught his nephew ballet and had him practice to my piano?
I felt as though I heard Urara's laughter, though I had lost the means to ever know.

(Body text character count: 2,000 characters)

#This is an entry for the 'Those Who Lose Everything' Literary Award.