When Naosa played the piano again, her condition improved dramatically—like magic, like a miracle, or perhaps like a curse fulfilled.
Naoaki reopened the old studio he had once rented, spending his days painting quietly while struggling with memories that grew sharper with each passing hour.
One afternoon, he found himself staring at a portrait of Sarotte, tears streaming down his face as he whispered,
“Forgive me. I didn’t want to lose our daughter too.”
For a moment, he could have sworn he felt a gentle hand brush across his cheek—and heard her voice, soft and forgiving:
“It’s okay, Naoaki. Thank you for protecting her.”
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Not long after, devastating news came from Japan.
His older daughter—the child from his first marriage—had died in a car accident. She had been married with a young son, and while the child had miraculously survived, he was now completely alone in the world.
Naoaki flew to Japan for the funeral, his heart heavy with guilt and regret. His ex-wife, now a successful businesswoman, made it clear she couldn’t take care of a toddler. The child’s father had no remaining family.
The boy, barely three years old, had no one left. He looked exactly as his mother had at that age—back when Naoaki had abandoned them both for his art and his dreams.
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The guilt that had haunted him for years twisted like a knife in his chest. He hadn’t been there when his daughter needed him most.
Could he abandon her son as well?
The boy didn’t speak, didn’t cry—just stared at everyone with wide, hollow eyes, too traumatized to grasp what had happened to his world.
After much soul-searching, Naoaki made his decision. He brought the boy back to France with him.
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He introduced him to Naosa gently.
“This is your nephew. His name is Kazuha. He lost his parents in a terrible accident.”
Then he asked her quietly,
“Should we find another family for him, or adopt him ourselves? What do you think?”
Without hesitation, Naosa took the boy’s hand and smiled with genuine warmth.
Kazuha, desperate for love and security, threw his small arms around her and held on tightly. He wanted a mother figure again—someone to fill the void in his shattered world.
Naosa looked up at her father with quiet determination.
“I want to live with this child. I want to be his family.”
From that moment on, they were inseparable—related by blood as aunt and nephew, but bound as siblings by love and shared loss.
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A year passed peacefully.
Thinking about their future and wanting to give the children the best possible opportunities, Naoaki consulted with Sarotte’s sister and decided it was time to return to the United States.
They bought the house where Naosa lives now—a beautiful home with room for art, music, and the growing family they had become.
And with great care—and at enormous expense—they arranged to have the ancient piano moved as well.
Naoaki still claimed he didn’t believe in curses or supernatural blessings.
But he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the piano behind—not when it seemed to be the only thing keeping his daughter alive.
“I don’t know if it’s protection or a curse,” he admitted to himself one day. “But if it keeps her alive, I’ll take either one.”
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Now he stood in the living room, staring at the painting that had started it all, lost in thought and memory.
He knew all too well the devastating pain of losing someone you love—the way it could hollow you out, leave you a shell of yourself, and make you question everything you thought you knew about life, meaning, and hope.
If that young man—Alex—truly loved Naosa, he deserved to know the truth.
Even if he didn’t believe it at first.
Even if it might drive him away.
Love deserved honesty, even when the truth was impossible to accept.
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