🎭手違いから始まる恋の序曲 - Ch6 - A Song Sung Only for You

💜💗💜💗💜 Story 💗💜💗💜💗 After the performance, the two of them remained in the box. At first, the footsteps of departing audience members could still be heard in the corridor outside. As people crossed the grand hall, they discussed the ending of The Winter Garden. Some praised the soprano’s voice, while others complained that the final act had been far too quiet for a grand opera. Luka and Gakupo did not leave. They sat side by side in the box, watching the principal performers take their final bows. The stage lights gradually dimmed, and the applause slowly faded. The actors withdrew behind the curtain, the musicians put away their instruments, and the figures in the auditorium disappeared row by row. Only after the final audience member had departed did the opera house become truly silent. A single amber work light remained upon the stage. Most of the winter garden that had only moments ago been covered in snow had already been dismantled. Even the white rose upon which the gardener had fixed his final gaze was carefully placed inside a wooden crate by the stagehands. Looking towards the increasingly empty stage, Luka said softly, “The final rose appeared too early.” Gakupo leaned back in his chair, his gaze still fixed upon the centre of the stage. “Had it appeared a little later, the audience might have believed that the gardener had decided to leave.” “He should have left.” “But he did not.” “That is precisely why it is a tragedy.” Luka turned towards him, her voice growing serious without her noticing. “That rose was not hope. It merely gave him a reason to remain. He will guard that garden year after year, waiting for someone who will never return.” Gakupo looked at her. “I believe the rose proves that the princess truly existed.” “Proof does not make loss any easier.” “Perhaps not.” He paused briefly. “But at least it prevents their meeting from becoming a dream that only he remembers.” The reply Luka had prepared suddenly stopped upon her lips. She looked at Gakupo for a moment, then turned her gaze away. “The second act was handled better than the ending.” Gakupo did not question her silence. Instead, he followed the direction of her words. “The scene in which the princess first attempts to touch the gardener?” “Yes.” At the mention of the performance’s details, Luka’s expression brightened once more. “When the princess walked to the centre of the stage, the light fell from behind her, making it appear as though she truly possessed a shadow. But when the gardener reached out, that shadow passed straight through his fingertips.” “The actor did not look at her face.” “Because he was afraid to.” “Afraid of seeing her disappointment?” “No.” Luka shook her head at once. “He was afraid that he would accept it. If he looked at her, he would become willing to remain in a relationship in which they could never touch one another.” Gakupo watched her quietly. “You seem to understand him very well.” Luka paused. “I am merely analysing the character.” “I know.” His tone was calm, though a trace of amusement remained visible in his eyes. Luka narrowed hers. “You are deliberately speaking ambiguously again.” “Then allow me to ask a different question.” Gakupo picked up the programme and opened it to the pieces listed in the second act. “When did the gardener first realise that the princess was about to disappear?” “Before the first duet had ended.” “At that point, the story had not yet revealed that spring was approaching.” “It was not revealed by the story. It was revealed by the music.” Luka pointed to a passage in the score. “The princess sings that winter has not yet ended, but beneath her melody, the gardener repeats the four notes from the overture that represent spring. He has already heard the season beginning to change. He simply refuses to acknowledge it.” “You still remember those four notes?” “Of course.” She answered without hesitation. Gakupo set the programme down. “Then would you sing them for me?” Luka’s expression immediately froze. “Here?” “Only so that I may understand what you mean.” “Even if it is only four notes, one should not sing casually inside an opera box.” “There is no one left.” Luka glanced towards the corridor. It was indeed very quiet outside. The last of the attendants seemed to have gone downstairs. Only the occasional sound of a distant wooden door closing disturbed the silence. She did not agree immediately. Gakupo did not urge her. He remained seated and waited for her decision. After a while, Luka stood. She first walked to the entrance of the box and checked that no one remained in the corridor. Then she reached out and drew the heavy curtain completely closed. The deep crimson fabric slowly came together, concealing the empty passageway. But she did not stop there. Luka crossed to the side facing the auditorium and released the draperies that had been tied back. The soft, heavy fabric descended, separating the box from the stage, the auditorium, and the vaulted ceiling beyond. The last trace of amber light from the theatre disappeared behind the curtains. The box became quiet and enclosed. Only the wall lamps gave off a gentle glow, illuminating the two chairs placed side by side and Luka standing before the crimson draperies. Gakupo stared at her for a moment. “Is it necessary to close every curtain merely to sing four notes?” “It will prevent the sound from travelling outside.” “There is no one left in the theatre.” “Even when no one is present, that does not mean I wish to sing for the entire opera house.” Only after speaking did she realise that her words carried another possible meaning. Gakupo did not answer immediately. The space behind the curtains seemed suddenly smaller. The stage had vanished. The auditorium had vanished. Even the applause and singing that had once filled the theatre had been shut away beyond the thick fabric. At that moment, only the two of them remained inside the box. Avoiding his gaze, Luka added quietly, “I am singing only for you.” Gakupo looked at her, and the amusement in his expression gradually gave way to seriousness. “I understand.” His voice softened as well. “I will listen carefully.” Luka did not face the curtains, nor did she imagine herself standing upon a stage. She turned and faced Gakupo. Only a few steps separated them. There was no audience, no orchestra, and no distant corner of the theatre her voice needed to reach. She did not need to send her voice towards the highest box in the opera house, nor did she need to raise it so that it might carry above the accompaniment of the instruments. This song needed only to reach the place where he sat. Luka drew a quiet breath. The opening melody flowed from her lips. She sang softly, in a voice gentler even than her usual speech. It was the ghost princess’s melody, transparent as a thin layer of frost upon a winter window. The sound did not drift towards the stage. It settled quietly before Gakupo. He remained seated without moving. He did not turn the pages of the programme or observe the lighting and scenery as he did during a performance. He simply watched her with complete attention. Then Luka sang the four notes belonging to the gardener. The melody descended slightly. Spring had not yet arrived, but it had already left an unmistakable warning within his voice. The princess still believed that winter might continue forever. The gardener already knew that the time they possessed was coming to an end. There had originally been only four notes. But Luka did not stop. She continued through the princess’s next line and sang the answer the gardener had never spoken aloud. Her song was no longer intended to explain a passage in the score. Nor was it meant to prove that her interpretation of the character was correct. Within that narrow space enclosed by curtains, her voice had nowhere else to go. Every note could only fall towards Gakupo. She could see the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the slight tightening of his fingers as he listened, and the light of the wall lamps reflected in his violet eyes. Luka suddenly realised that singing for one person was far more unsettling than singing for an entire theatre. An entire theatre would not look at her this way. Nor would it make her so acutely aware that every breath she took, every trace of hesitation in her voice, was being fully received by one person. As she reached the final phrase, her voice gradually softened. Not because she lacked breath. But because she did not wish the melody to end too soon. When the final note disappeared, silence filled the box. Beyond the curtains, it seemed as though the entire opera house had ceased to exist. Luka remained where she stood. She suddenly did not know where to look, and so lowered her gaze towards the programme in her hands. Gakupo did not speak at once. His silence made her increasingly uneasy. “It was only an improvised passage,” she said first. “There was no accompaniment, and the pitch may not have been entirely accurate.” “It was accurate.” “The box is small. The acoustics may have created an illusion.” “It was not an illusion.” Gakupo rose from his seat. The curtains shut out every trace of light from the world beyond. As he approached, the distance between them seemed shorter than it ordinarily would. Luka raised her eyes instinctively. He did not analyse her technique, her breathing, or the quality of her voice as he might have done with a singer upon the stage. He simply looked at her with complete sincerity. “That was extraordinary.” Luka stared at him. “What?” “Your singing,” Gakupo said. “The princess’s melody was beautiful, but the gardener’s four notes were even more painful. You sang them as though he already knew the ending, yet still could not bring himself to let go.” Heat quickly rose into Luka’s cheeks. “I merely followed the score.” “Not everyone who follows a score could sing it that way.” “There is no need to exaggerate.” “I am not exaggerating.” His answer was far too direct. Luka found herself unable to reply and could only turn away. She had drawn the curtains because she did not wish anyone to see her sing. Yet now, the thought that Gakupo alone had seen her seemed somehow more embarrassing than being seen by everyone else. “Mr Kamui.” “Yes?” “Please stop praising me.” “Very well.” He agreed obediently. But the gentle smile remained in his eyes. Luka found it even more difficult to look at him. For a while, the box remained quiet. Neither of them suggested opening the curtains. As long as the draperies remained closed, they did not have to return immediately to the world outside, nor did they have to acknowledge that the evening had already ended. Gakupo was the first to break the silence. “In two weeks, The Queen of the Sea will be performed again.” Luka finally looked at him. “With the newly designed inclined deck?” “I have heard that the stage machinery is being completely reconstructed.” “The original structure would be nearly impossible to reproduce in its entirety.” “Which is precisely why it is worth seeing for ourselves.” Gakupo smiled faintly. “The third performance is generally the most reliable, is it not?” Remembering what she had said before, Luka could not help smiling as well. “The audience at the premiere is too noisy, and during the second performance, the actors tend to conserve their strength too deliberately.” “Then the third performance.” “The same box?” He asked the question as naturally as though the answer had already been decided. Luka glanced around at the deep crimson curtains hanging on every side. The song she had sung seemed still to linger within this space that belonged only to the two of them. “The same box,” she replied softly. “Then I shall see you in two weeks.” “In two weeks.” Even after making the arrangement, neither of them left immediately. Only when the flame of the wall lamp flickered did Luka finally walk towards the curtain. She reached out to open it, but paused. “What happened tonight must not be mentioned to anyone.” Gakupo asked, “You mean your singing?” “Everything.” She turned towards him, the blush upon her face not yet entirely faded. “Including the fact that I closed the curtains.” Gakupo looked at her quietly. “I will tell no one.” “You are not permitted to mention it the next time we meet, either.” “That may be rather difficult to promise.” Luka glared at him faintly. “Mr Kamui.” At last, Gakupo laughed aloud. She had intended to reprimand him, but the corners of her own lips rose beyond her control. The heavy curtains remained closed. Their laughter did not travel towards the empty stage, nor did it rise into the vaulted ceiling of the opera house. It remained only within the box enclosed by deep crimson draperies. In that moment, the entire theatre had been shut away. There were no actors, no audience, and no magnificent stage. There were only Luka, Gakupo, and a song sung for him alone.