Afternoon Tea, and the Night’s Music
As the afternoon light began to tilt, a gentle glow filled the lobby lounge. From the high ceiling, chandelier light softened into the amber surface of tea poured into fine cups.
Reaching for a sandwich layered with jam, Sugihara said—almost poetically—
“The afternoon tea here makes time feel kind.”
Mirei cradled her gold-rimmed cup with both hands and nodded gracefully.
“It’s like being inside an old film.”
Mishima smiled as he spread clotted cream onto a scone. Live piano music drifted through the room, and the hours passed with a refined, lingering calm.
At six o’clock, when dusk began to stain the city red, they took a taxi to Victoria Concert Hall.
The white hall—still carrying the air of the colonial era—stood wrapped in the evening sun, as if it had risen from the far side of time.
Waiting for them in the entrance hall was Asakura Soichi.
“It’s been a while,” he said warmly. “I’m glad you arrived safely.”
He looked slightly more tanned than before, and his smile was steady, gentle. Even in Singapore’s humidity, his suit collar held an undeniable cleanliness—an unspoken discipline.
Standing beside him was a striking woman in a deep crimson long dress. Her long, wavy hair fell over her shoulders. In her expression lived the quiet confidence of someone who belonged on a stage.
Asakura turned to them.
“Let me introduce you. My fiancée—and tonight’s recital soloist—Hayama Chihiro.”
Mishima’s eyes widened.
“Hayama Chihiro…? The violinist who won the silver prize at the Paganini Competition ten years ago—”
Chihiro smiled.
“I’m honored you remember.”
Her voice was soft, yet clear—like the sound of a well-tuned instrument.
Sugihara asked, “Dr. Asakura, have you adjusted to life here?”
“Yes,” Asakura replied. “It’s been six months since I came to Singapore. I’ve finally found my rhythm at the hospital. And Chihiro recently moved her base of activity here as well, so… it was good timing for both of us.”
They exchanged a glance—then a smile.
Watching them, Mishima felt something warm tighten in his chest: a sense of lives rebuilding under a different sky.
A bell rang softly.
“It’s time,” Asakura said. “Please—your seats. Tonight will include Paganini and Bach, and one of her original pieces as well.”
Inside the hall, classic ceiling ornamentation and warm lighting seemed to foreshadow a story about to unfold.
When the concert ended, the music still lingering like a soft imprint in their chests, they returned to their rooms.
The corridors of Raffles were already wrapped in night silence. Even a single footstep echoed deep.
Mishima lifted a cocktail glass—Singapore Sling—and opened the door leading toward the courtyard. A breeze moved the curtains gently. Sweet tropical fragrance drifted in.
He descended a few steps to the lawn.
Moonlight turned the grass silver.
He rested a hand on the railing and looked up.
Countless stars glittered in a dark navy sky. The constellations were unfamiliar—different from the northern sky he’d grown up with—quietly looking down like promises from a foreign land.
(Someday… I want to be like Dr. Asakura.)
Not simply a brilliant doctor.
A doctor who could believe in someone—and be believed in return.
A doctor who healed others, and grew in the process.
The courtyard held only stillness, and distant night sounds that drifted like whispers. Tropical stars flickered. The wind carried the scent of flowers.
The memories of the 사건—the faces of those involved—felt wrapped in this silence, pushed far back into the past.
Then—
He heard a soft sound: a door opening nearby.
“Doctor… you’re out here too?”
Mishima turned.
Mirei stood there.
She wore a nightgown with a cardigan over it, pressing a towel to her still-damp hair. Barefoot, she stepped onto the balcony and moved to his side, casually looking up at the sky.
“…It’s a beautiful night,” she said.
“It really is,” Mishima answered.
The air between them was gentle—so gentle it felt strangely familiar, like something they had once known.
Mishima spoke, the words he’d carried for a long time finally finding their moment.
“Mirei… you saved my life. Truly. Thank you.”
Mirei’s cheeks colored slightly. She gave a small laugh.
“When I think back… I barely remember it. I was just… desperate.”
“No,” Mishima said. “If you hadn’t thrown yourself in like that, I might not be standing here.”
Mirei shook her shoulders with a soft laugh.
“Actually… I did it twice.”
“Twice? When?”
“At the station platform,” she said, eyes bright with mischief. “Remember? One of the men chasing you lied and said you tried to steal his bag. The one who slammed into him—was me.”
Mishima stared, then slowly nodded as the memory clicked into place.
“Oh… that’s why one of them dropped out. I see…”
He exhaled in amazement.
“You’re basically a professional… human battering ram.”
Mirei giggled.
“So far I’ve only hit bad people.”
Then, after a brief pause, her expression shifted—just slightly.
She looked at him with playful seriousness and said,
“Next time… I might try running into a good person.”
Mishima lost his words.
“…What?”
He looked at her slowly.
Mirei returned his gaze from under her lashes, then gave the faintest shrug—
as if, instead of explaining, she was letting the gesture say everything.
A breeze brushed his fingertips and passed soundlessly through the courtyard—like something gently pushing them forward.
Mishima closed his eyes and drew in the night air once more.
Above them, the Southern Cross shone quietly.
And somewhere, softly—very softly—
the door to a new life was beginning to open.
— The End —
