School Festival

On a Saturday in mid-October, before it was fully light, Hua Hua sat up in bed.

She set three alarms last night, but woke up before the first one went off.

The sky outside the window was light gray; the sun hadn't risen yet, but a thin layer of gold was slowly spreading in the distance.

She walked barefoot on the floor, ran to the window for a glance, and then ran back to her room to change her clothes.

Last night, she spent half an hour choosing a white sweatshirt and dark blue jeans. She tied her hair into a bun, looked at herself in the mirror several times, took it off and re-tied it, took it off and re-tied it again, until her mother called from downstairs, "Are you done yet?" She was finally satisfied.

"Here it comes—"

She slipped on her canvas shoes, grabbed the cloth bag by the door, which contained her wallet, cell phone, a pack of tissues, and a small mirror.

Mom was already standing in the entryway, wearing a light gray coat and carrying a cloth bag, smiling at her.

"So proactive today?"

"Of course! I'm going to see Natsuki and Asuka-chan's performance!" Hana opened the door, and a cool autumn breeze blew in.

She shrank back, ran back to grab a light jacket, and then rushed out again, shouting, "Let's go, let's go!"

There were more people at the station than usual, mostly parents with children, chatting in twos and threes as they walked in the same direction.

Hua Hua was restless on the tram, sometimes standing up to look out the window, sometimes sitting down again, and twirling the ribbon around her fingers.

"Mom, what time do you think they'll start?"

"The notice said 10 o'clock."

"Will we make it in time?"

"We'll make it." Mom glanced at her phone. "It's only 8:30."

Hua Hua said "Oh," was quiet for about ten seconds, and then asked again, "Mommy, do you think Xia Jun can really play the oboe well?"

"Didn't you say last time that he was good at blowing his own horn?"

"That was during summer vacation. Two months later, it must be even better!"

Mom smiled and nodded, without saying anything.

She knew her daughter's talkative nature; if she went along with her, the journey would be anything but peaceful.

When the tram arrived at the station, Hua Hua practically jumped off. Holding her mother's hand, she raced towards Tatekami Chiba Elementary School.

A banner announcing the 60th School Festival had been hung at the school gate, and red banners swayed gently in the autumn breeze. Several senior students were handing out flyers at the gate.

Hua Hua took a card, glanced at it, and saw that it listed the exhibition projects of each class and the performance schedule of the gymnasium.

"Mom! There's a map of the stadium here. We can find it by following the arrows!"

Hua Hua turned her head and excitedly waved the flyer in her hand.

I was planning to contact Asuka and the others to pick me up first, but it seems I can go directly there now.

The path from the teaching building to the gymnasium is a long corridor. Hua Hua ran so fast that the bag kept slipping off her shoulder, so she had to take it off, hold it to her chest, and continue sprinting.

As her classmates rushed past in the hallway, some stepped aside, while others shouted, "Slow down, don't rush!" Without turning her head, Hua Hua yelled back, "I'm in a rush! I'm really in a rush!"

People were already queuing to enter the stadium. Hua Hua stopped in the crowd, bent over and panting heavily.

Hua Hua's mother caught up from behind, panting even more heavily than Hua Hua, leaning against the wall unable to speak.

"Why are you running so fast, kid? It's not like we're going to be late."

"If we arrive late, all the good seats will be taken. It will be so sad if we don't see Asuka and Summer's End!"

Hua Hua took a few breaths, then looked up towards the entrance of the gymnasium—

A woman dressed differently from Japanese women stood at the door, her hair neatly tied up, carrying a cloth bag, smiling and waving in their direction.

Hua Hua recognized her.

Asuka-chan's mother?

The mother bird walked towards her with a smile, holding two registration forms in her hand.

"Hua Hua, you're here. Fei Niao said you'd be coming and told me to wait for you at the door."

Hua Hua ran up to her, took a couple of breaths, and then looked around: "Auntie, are you all alone?"

Feiniao's mother nodded: "Her father is working overtime today, and her eldest and second eldest brothers also have their own things to do. Feiniao said that no one from Xia Mo's family is coming, so she asked me to tell you when I ran into you."

Hua Hua paused slightly in her steps.

No one came to my house at the end of summer.

She remembered visiting Xia Mo's house during summer vacation.

That silent father, that hurried mother. She remembered Xia Mo's tone when she said, "It's okay, I'm used to it," so calm, so calm that she didn't know how to respond.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but in the end she just took her mother's arm and said, "Let's go in together."

The lights inside the stadium were much dimmer than those in the corridor.

The audience seats were already mostly occupied, including middle-aged men and women who looked like parents, residents who came from nearby, and student volunteers in school uniforms maintaining order.

On the stage directly in front, the deep red curtain was still drawn, and the banner above the curtain read "60th School Festival Band Performance of Katsushika Ward Kamichiba Elementary School".

The lights on the left side of the stage were on, and the piano stood quietly by the stage with its lid open, the keys gleaming softly in the light.

Hua Hua found an empty seat in the front row and sat down. Flying Bird's mother sat to her left, and Hua Hua's mother sat to her right. She placed the cloth bag on her lap and her fingers twirled around the strap.

"Has it started?" she asked softly.

"Not yet." Mother Bird glanced at her watch. "9:58, two minutes to go."

Hua Hua quieted down.

The buzzing in the stadium gradually subsided; some people were clearing their throats, while others were flipping through the program.

Hua Hua also received the program, which was filled with a dense list of programs and performers. After searching for a while, she found Xia Mo and Hua Hua's names in the ensemble section.

She folded the program, took her phone out of her bag, opened the camera app, and switched to video recording mode.

She wanted to record it.

His family wasn't in the audience, but at least she could record it.

10 o'clock sharp.

The stadium lights dimmed, until only the emergency lights emitted a faint orange glow.

The talking in the audience completely disappeared, replaced by a quiet, expectant holding of breath.

Hua Hua could hear the steady breathing of the mother bird next to her, the soft cough of someone in the back row, and the light footsteps of the staff behind the stage curtain.

The deep red curtain slowly rose.

The curtain moved very slowly to both sides, as slowly as the morning mist dissipating little by little in the sunlight.

The first instrument to appear was the piano. Its dark body gleamed with a warm sheen under the stage lights, and the thin white and black keys were particularly distinct under the light.

Ms. Mikami sat at the piano, wearing a light blue dress, her hair draped over her shoulders, her fingers resting quietly on her knees.

Then came the brass section, where the bells of the trumpets, trombones, and French horns gleamed golden under the lights, like a row of neatly arranged little suns.

Next came the woodwind section: flute, clarinet, saxophone; the keys of the instruments reflected tiny specks of light under the lamp.

The percussion section was in the last row. The brass drumheads of the timpani were gleaming under the lights. Fei Niao sat behind the timpani, holding the drumsticks in his hand, his back very straight.

In the last row of the woodwind section, Hua Hua saw Xia Mo.

He was wearing a white shirt and black trousers, with a dark brown oboe resting on his knees, his back ramrod straight, like a growing bamboo.

He looked down at the instrument in his hands, his lips slightly pursed, as if he were taking a deep breath.

Hua Hua held her phone up, aimed it at the stage, and pressed the record button.

Mr. Tanaka walked onto the conductor's platform, dressed in a black suit, looking unusually formal.

He stood on the stage, his gaze sweeping over the audience below, then he bowed slightly. A few scattered applause erupted, quickly fading into silence.

"Distinguished guests, welcome to the joint performance of the Ensemble and Choir Departments."

Mr. Tanaka's voice came through the microphone, steady and powerful.

"The first piece, 'LOVE Theme from TIGA', for wind ensemble and piano. Composed by Tatsumi Yano. Conducted by Ichiro Tanaka. Piano by Mayumi Mikami."

Hua Hua noticed that when he said "Piano, Mayumi Mikami," his voice was much louder than when he said his own name.

The lights dimmed again, and the spotlights on the stage came on, one beam shining on the conductor's podium and the other on the piano.

Mr. Tanaka raised his baton, and the entire hall fell into absolute silence. Hua Hua could hear her own heartbeat.

The moment the baton fell, the first note of the piano flowed from the keys.

It was a very low sound, so low it felt like it was vibrating in the floor beneath your feet.

It wasn't like river water; it was more like a drop of ink falling into a deep pool, slowly spreading across the dark surface, circle after circle.

There were no ripples, only a quiet, almost invisible spread.

Then came the second note, a little higher than the first, but still low, like someone sighing softly in the dead of night.

Mr. Mikami's fingering is extremely light and soft. Every note seems to be carefully lifted from under the keys. There are no accents or sudden loudnesses, only a continuous, breathing-like rise and fall.

The flute joins in at the eighth measure. Its sound is not as deep as the piano, but clear and transparent, like autumn moonlight passing through a cloudless night sky and falling on a still body of water.

But the flute's melody is not bright; it carries a restrained sadness, as if recalling something that can never be returned to.

Each note was drawn out for a long time, making you reluctant to let it go before it ended.

Hua Hua unconsciously held her breath.

The clarinet follows the flute, its tone darker yet warmer, like someone standing by a window at dusk watching the sky gradually darken, reaching out to grasp something, but grasping nothing.

The clarinet melody and the flute intertwine, one bright and one dark, one high and one low, like two rivers flowing parallel in the dead of night, neither able to see the other, yet both under the same night sky.

The sound of the saxophone spread out from behind, thick and soft, like a thin blanket covering those sorrowful melodies, not to keep them warm, but to let them know that someone is listening.

The copper pipe team hasn't joined yet; they're waiting.

The left hand of the piano begins to move into the low register, sinking down note by note, like a person gradually walking into deeper water, while the right hand gently embellishes the high register, like stars that occasionally light up in the distance.

The theme of the first movement truly unfolds at this moment.

The oboe hasn't sounded yet.

Hua Hua's eyes searched for the oboe on the stage. Xia Mo's oboe was still resting on his lap; he hadn't raised it.

He is waiting.

His lips moved slightly, as if he were silently counting the beats.

Mr. Tanaka's baton swayed gently, his body leaned slightly forward, and at one moment his left hand lifted up slightly, almost imperceptibly.

The oboe played.

When the first note broke free from the tube, Hua Hua's heart skipped a beat.

That wasn't the bright, clear voice she had envisioned—the voice was dark and soft, like someone standing far away, across a river, across the entire twilight, playing a song without lyrics.

Xia Mo closed her eyes.

The oboe melody slowly unfolds on the piano and flute's undercarriage, like a black ribbon gently swaying in the night breeze.

It's not straight; it curves slightly, like the corners of a person's mouth trying not to cry.

There was a long breath between each note, each note softer than the last, like someone saying "It's okay" and their voice getting softer and softer until they didn't even believe it themselves anymore.

The audience was completely silent. No one coughed, no one flipped through the program, and no one whispered.

Even the children stopped making a fuss. Hua Hua didn't know if there were really no children, or if they had also been silenced by that voice.

Flying Bird's mother remained seated, but her hand had somehow gripped the hem of her skirt above her knee. Flower's mother turned her head to look at the stage, motionless.

Hua Hua's hand, which was holding the phone, started to ache, but she didn't dare to put it down.

The piano accompaniment changed at this point. The bass notes in the left hand no longer sank downwards, but began to move back and forth between the bass and middle registers, as if pacing back and forth.

The melody in the right hand became thin, like a person who had used up the last bit of strength and was left only with breathing.

The flute sounded again, this time even softer than before, so soft it was as if it were speaking in a breath.

The clarinet stopped playing, and the saxophone also stopped.

Only the oboe floated alone on the thin canvas of the piano.

Those few melodic phrases are the quietest part of the entire piece. There's no power, no tempo, and none of those impressive techniques.

It was just a sound, delicate and resilient, in the quiet music room—

No, in the quiet stadium, it's like a child slowly drawing on paper, drawing one circle after another, not even knowing what they're drawing, but just refusing to stop.

Hua Hua felt a lump in her throat.

She couldn't explain why she felt sour. It wasn't because Xia Mo played it so well, nor because the piece was so beautiful.

It was because that voice reminded her of something, something she couldn't recall, or perhaps something she had never experienced before.

The feeling was like a summer evening, when she stood alone on the balcony watching the sunset. The sky gradually darkened, and the wind gradually cooled down. She wanted to say something, but there was no one around.

The oboe's sound grew softer and softer, as if afraid of waking something.

The last note fades slowly from the piano chord, like raindrops falling on water, ripples spreading outwards, spreading outwards, until they disappear from sight.

The stadium was silent for about three seconds.

There was no applause.

It wasn't because it sounded bad, but because everyone felt there was something left lingering, something that was still there, something that was slowly melting away in the air. Hua Hua held her breath, still holding her phone, afraid to move.

Then, I don't know who was the first to applaud.

The applause wasn't the kind that's enthusiastic, explosive, or comes on like a tidal wave.

It rang out sporadically from various corners of the audience, like the first rain of spring, one drop, two drops, then more and more, denser and denser, until finally merging into a vast expanse.

Some people patted very lightly, as if afraid that a heavy pat would shatter the sound they had just heard. Others patted very hard, as if they had just been pulled out of the water and were gripping the rocks on the shore with all their might.

Hua Hua clapped so loudly that the mother bird next to her glanced at her and couldn't help but laugh.

"Don't your hands hurt from clapping so loudly?"

"It doesn't hurt!" Hua Hua patted hard. "It sounds so beautiful!"

Her eyes were red, but she didn't cry. She sniffed, put her phone down, and rummaged through her bag for tissues.

"Here you go." Asuka's mother handed over a pack of tissues.

Hua Hua drew a card, wiped her eyes, and sniffed.

"Auntie, don't you think Xia Jun plays the flute beautifully?"

Asuka's mother looked at the ensemble members taking their final bow on stage and nodded gently.

"That child," she said, "must have practiced for a long time."

Hua Hua sniffed again, but didn't say anything.

On stage, members of the ensemble are bowing to the audience in gratitude.

The brass section, woodwind section, and percussion section stood up one by one, and Asuka, holding her drumsticks in the last row, also bowed.

When Xia Mo stood up, Hua Hua saw that his face was red, and she wondered if he had blown too hard and hadn't recovered yet.

Mr. Tanaka walked to the front of the stage and bowed deeply to the audience. Mr. Mikami stood up from the piano, walked to his side, and bowed as well.

The two stood side by side, with a person's distance between them, but Hana noticed that when Tanaka-sensei bowed, she secretly leaned a little towards Mikami-sensei.

The stadium lights came back on. Hua Hua put her phone away, opened her photo album, and glanced at the video she had just recorded.

In the video, the stage lights are very bright, and Xia Mo's figure is somewhat blurry, but the outline of the oboe is very clear.

She dragged the progress bar to the end and listened to the fading sound again.

"Mom," she turned to look at her mother, "how about we go backstage to find them after we're done?"

"it is good."

"I want to tell Xia Jun that he plays the flute really well."

Mom smiled and patted her head.

People in the audience started whispering among themselves. Some were asking, "Who's that on the oboe?" "He plays so well!" Some parents were telling the person next to them, "My child is in the flute section, the one in the second row." Some people had already started packing up to leave.

An elderly man with gray hair in the back row slowly stood up, patted non-existent dust off his pants, and said to the person next to him, "It's been a long time since I've heard anyone play the oboe in elementary school."

Hua Hua heard it. She silently repeated the sentence in her mind and saved it.

The curtain on the stage closed and opened again, and the members of the ensemble were packing up their instruments to leave. Next up was the time for the chorus.

Asuka stood up from the percussion section, glanced towards the audience, and saw her mother, as well as Hua Hua and her mother.

She waved to them, and Hua Hua waved back, waving vigorously and forcefully, as if she wanted to stand up from her seat.

Hua Hua sat down, put her phone back in her backpack, and zipped it up. The video she had just recorded was already on her phone; she planned to send it to Xia Mo when she got home.

Hua Hua's mother handed her a bottle of water, which she took, unscrewed the cap, and drank two sips.

The sounds of the school festival from the playground could be faintly heard outside the window. Someone was shouting, "Three takoyaki for 500 yen!" Someone was laughing, and someone was running.

But those ten-odd minutes in the gymnasium felt longer to Hua Hua than all the other time in the entire school festival combined.

Those sounds still seem to echo in my ears.

The bass of the piano, the moonlight of the flute, the evening of the clarinet, and the thin, resilient string of the oboe.

She closed her eyes and listened to it again.

In my heart.