The atmosphere in the car was tense—unlike usual for them.
Both Naosa and Alex stayed quiet.
Naosa seemed lost in thought, and Alex didn’t know what to say.
After a while, Naosa finally spoke.
“I’m sorry about this morning. My father and I… we’ve had an uncomfortable relationship for a long time. It’s complicated.”
Alex asked gently,
“Since when has it been like that?”
She stared ahead.
“I don’t even remember anymore.”
Then, after a pause, she asked hesitantly,
“Did he say anything strange to you? Something like… that we should break up?”
Alex lied.
“No. He didn’t say anything.”
Naosa turned toward the window, her reflection flickering faintly in the glass.
“Don’t get me wrong—I love my father. I’m just angry. He decides everything on his own and never tells me anything. He disappears for months, comes back without warning, and leaves again. He’s so selfish. I haven’t seen him smile since my mother died. He’s never hugged me. He’s angry too—I know that—but I don’t know what to do.”
She sighed quietly.
“Do you hate me now? You probably think I’m a terrible daughter.”
Alex smiled a little, teasing but gentle.
“I was surprised, but I don’t hate you. I just tried not to make you mad.”
Her lips curved faintly, and for the first time that day, they both relaxed.
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Naosa had never truly understood why she had the name Séraphine.
She had always thought it was simply a French name.
She had always considered the old piano—the one no one else could make sound—as her piano.
When her mother died, the adults told her she was “sick,” and whenever her health failed after that, she believed them. No one ever explained the truth.
No matter how gifted she became, the De Valois family warned her never to pursue music professionally—never to perform in public. She was to play only for “her people.”
Naosa had never questioned that.
She had always known there was something different about her.
Through music, through art, she could feel things completely—see the unseen landscape behind every sound and color, and share that vision with others.
When Naosa was little, her aunt from the De Valois family had once told her,
“Long ago, everyone could do it. But over time, people forgot how. It became harder to feel it with just the heart. You’re not special for having it now. Your parents can do it too.”
As a child, Naosa had been overjoyed to hear that.
It made her feel forever connected—to her gentle mother she would never see again, and to her father, who was always leaving.
She also knew her father loved her.
He had given her the best education.
And when she’d been close to death—half-conscious, drifting—she remembered hearing him cry, calling her mother’s name, begging for help.
Her father had never truly recovered from her mother’s death.
He loved Naosa deeply, but carried a grief that had nowhere to go.
“The illness doesn’t just hurt the one who has it,” she once said softly. “It hurts the ones who love them too.”
She had lived with that truth all her life.
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That night, Alex stood by the kitchen window, holding a mug he hadn’t touched in ten minutes.
The house was finally still.
Kazuha was asleep. Lu and Kacy had gone to bed.
Even the piano down the hall seemed to hum with silence.
He heard soft footsteps.
Naosa padded in, barefoot, wearing an oversized cardigan. She didn’t speak—just came up beside him and leaned gently into his shoulder.
He wrapped an arm around her. She rested her head there.
After a long silence, she whispered,
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For everything. For making you see that side of me. For all of it.”
Alex kissed the top of her head.
“You don’t need to apologize for being real.”
They stood that way for a while—quiet, steady, breathing together.
Then Naosa lifted her head and looked at him.
“Do you ever regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“Falling in love with me.”
He smiled—tired, tender, and full of something deep.
“I think I started falling for you the first time you came into my office and sneezed.”
She laughed softly.
“I don’t regret a thing, Nao,” he said. “I’m just… scared I’m not strong enough for all of this.”
Naosa took his hand.
“I am,” she said.
They stayed like that for a long time.
No rush. No answers.
Just breath, and warmth, and the quiet promise of not being alone.
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