Some melodies return long after the moment they were written,
not as a promise, but as a memory the world wasn't ready to
release. There are winters that take from
us, and winters that give back in ways we never expected.
A name spoken in a cold room, a box held carefully and shaking
hands. Two men who once walked beside
him, now standing in the quiet he left behind.
Grief moves differently when shared.
It softens at the edges. It finds room to breathe.
It let the choose rise between people who never thought they
would meet. And somewhere in the stillness,
a small melody waits, unfinished, unresolved, holding
the echo of the boy who shaped all their winters.
This is Winter's last melody. Chapter 5.
The melody that belonged to him. The quiet inside Wren's workshop
settled slowly, like snow choosing where to lend.
The door had been closed for a while, the heater clicking
softly as it thought the cold. Two men, both shaken in
different corners of the same room, tried to steady themselves
again. Wren remained near the
workbench, hands braced on the wood he trusted.
Across the room, Isuki wiped the last trace of tears from his
face before speaking to his boss, apologetic restraint,
explaining the flights were suspended.
When he hung up, neither man spoke.
The silence between them was not uncomfortable, it was simply
delicate. Isuki finally set his phone down
and reached into his travel bag. His movements were careful,
deliberate. Wrapped in a soft claws.
He drew out a small wooden object, the music box he had
carried for years. Wren's eyes shifted the moment
it touched the workbench. Recognition flickered the
stubborn way Harrow's early work always held, tiny imperfections
like the fingerprints. Issuki unwrapped the claws
fully. It broke a while ago, he said
quietly. Wren reached forward, fingertips
brushing the cranked hinge, the loosened gears.
Wren excelled once, the sound small, almost warm.
I can't fix it, he said. The relief in Izuki's postures
was subtle but clear. He nodded, stepping closer to
watch Ren examine the inner mechanism.
Haru gave it to me, Izuki said. Ren paused only a breath, and
then nodded once, gently. The workshop light soften over
the broken box. Snow pressed lightly against the
window as R.E.M. Began to work, and the silence
between the two men shifted, no longer heavy, simply shared.
Wren worked in silence at first, not out of avoidance, but
because the music box demanded a kind of attention that left no
room for haste. He spread a clean cloth across
the workbench, placed each tool in a precise line, then lifted
the lid again with a gentleness that made Itzuki's press ease.
Without him meaning to, the gears inside were shifted.
One screw had nearly worn through its threat.
The hinge had split cleanly at the seam, a break that set more
about years than neglect. Isuki watched quietly from the
opposite side of the workbench, hands folded in front of him,
his trouble coat still hanging off 1's shoulder.
He didn't lean close or hover. He just stood there, as if
staying still might keep the memory from slipping.
Wren lifted the hinge, tested the GIF, then reach for a fine
headed screwdriver. We were in the same club.
Ren said. Kraftwerk instruments.
He stayed late a lot, tried too hard most days.
Isuki absorbed that slowly, just listening.
Rena just did the tiny gear, rotated the axle and set it
down. He gave you this?
He asked. Isuki nodded.
A long time ago. Ren's hands still for a moment,
barely a pause before he continued soothing the worn edge
of the wood. Another silence followed, softer
this time. Ren straightened, lifted the lid
gently and tested the tension of the repair trench.
It held Issuki let out of breast he didn't realise he'd been
holding. Ren didn't smile, but something
eased in his shoulders. Thank you, Issuki said quietly.
Ren simply nodded, 2 men sending over the same memory, letting
the room warm around them inch by inch.
Isuki sat down first, the repaired music box resting in
his hands as if it were still fragile.
Ren joined him a moment later, the heater soft Tom filling the
room with a steady muted warms. Neither spoke.
Isuki brushed his thumb over the lid once, lightly, then lifted
it. The first note was small,
tentative, almost shy, a thin child that wavered as though
remembering how to exist. The sake field Cup set a touch
beside them when reach for One Cup paused, then look at Itsuki.
You want to finish the sake? He asked.
Isuki let out of breath, A small one, almost.
The laugh was out, the sound. Yeah, he said, I think I do,
rampoured slowly. Their first sip was quiet, the
warm spreading gently through the cold edges of the room.
For a while they said nothing, not out of discomfort, but
because the knight didn't ask for noise.
You took. Your fingers drifted back to the
music box, tracing the smooth edge of the lid.
He hesitated. You knew him well, he said
quietly. Ren sat his cup down, fingers
brushing the wood off the table, grounding himself, studying the
place where memory threatened to rise.
And in a voice just above a whisper, he spoke.
There was a time when Haru and I were close, and the night
finally began to open. The sake warmed slowly between
them, thinning the cold that had clung to their shoulders since
the funeral. Pieces of their story surfaced
gradually, the quiet way Izuki's gaze lingered on the box,
remembering a time when Haru had placed it in his hands, that
they had known Haru in different time.
Ren's memories came from use, long hours in workshop rooms at
the university, Haru frustrated with tools he barely understood,
the brightness that drew people in before he ever realized it.
Izuki carried a later version, a steadier Haru, softened by
experience, more deliberate in his warmth, less unsure of where
to place his affection. 2 separate histories never meant
to overlap, now sitting side by side in a quiet winter workshop.
The sake moved them closer to the truce.
Haru had changed between their lives, and yet somehow he had
remained himself. It was an exchange of stories.
It was a quiet alignment, a winter truce settling into
place. Morning came quietly, as if
unsure whether to touch the night they had left behind.
The storm had blown itself out in the early hours, leaving
Otaro wrapped in a soft blue white stillness.
Snow clung thick against the workshop windows.
Ren stepped out first, boots sinking into a new snow with a
muffled sound. The cold met him cleanly.
He excelled, breast turning white in the morning air.
Isuki followed a moment later, pulling his coat tighter around
himself. His eyes scanned the pale sky,
the thin line of sun lifting slowly over the distant houses.
The world felt quieter than the night before.
A small radio near the door murmured weather updates from
the inside. The workshop.
Roads partially cleared, buses running again, trains expected
to resume by afternoon, Airports still closed.
Isuki listened without reacting. He had already accepted he
wasn't returning to Tokyo today. Ran close the workshop door,
gently locking it. The repaired music box was
wrapped carefully and tucked in Izuki's bag, resting between
spare closes and a few crumpled papers.
A memory in that hall again, waiting for its place.
Izuki looked toward the street, toward the snow covered car
waiting under a soft drift. Shall we say hello to Haru?
Ran nodded once. There was no hesitation in
either of them. Not in the way they moved toward
the car, not in the way R.E.M. brushed the snow from the
windshield, not in the way Itsuki held the back a little
closer, as if aware of its gravity.
They weren't returning for themselves.
They weren't returning foreclosure.
They were returning because Haru's memory asked for it.
Rent started the engine. Isuki settled into the passenger
seat. The drive was almost soundless.
The heater filled the car with muted warmth, but neither Wren
nor Isuki spoke. The morning seemed to ask for
quiet, and they honoured it. They passed a turn toward the
temple district. Isuki noticed, but didn't
question it. He understood intuitively the
way one recognized the truth was outwards, that the funeral
wasn't the place for what they carried.
Funeral were for farewell, spoken in public.
What they held was in public. Haru's body lay a temple for
visitors, condolences, rituals. But his life, the peace that
shaped the boy they each knew, lived in BA, in the fields, in
the farmhouse, in the quiet corners of BA.
He had never stopped returning to snowfields offered on both
sides of the road. Red had driven these passes in
younger years, back when Haru would insist on taking the long
route so they could talk about nothing and everything at once.
Isuki had never been to BA, but the landscape felt strangely
honest, as if it held something Haru had never been able to say
aloud. Ren slowed the car as they
approached the familiar wooden fence, the farmhouse still still
in the morning light, a thin trail of smoke rising from the
chimney, the fields stretching wide and untouched behind it.
They stepped out into the cold. Itsuki stood cell for a moment,
taking in the quiet. They didn't walk toward the
house right away. Instead, they wandered the
grounds, following the shape of fences, the storage shed.
Ren walked ahead at first, boots sinking into snow with a muted
crunch. Isuki trailed a few steps
behind, his gaze drifting across the field as if trying to
imagine Haru's footsteps layer beneath the snow.
The farm held its own kind of silence, not mournful but
familiar, like a place that had waded through many winters for
someone to return every now and then.
Ran paused to look over the land.
Isuki stopped near the old swing frame, half buried in snow, its
ropes stiff with frost. He didn't touch it, only watch
how the light landed on the seat, wondering if Haru had once
set their legs, kicking forward under the summer skies.
It felt right to walk first, to breathe this air.
They rounded the side of the house, boots leaving thin trails
behind them. The snow muffled everything,
their steps, their breath, the soft Creek of distant branches,
until the silence fell, almost protective.
Only then did the farmhouse door open.
A farm worker stepped out, bundled in a thick jacket,
rubbing his hands for warms. He looked surprised to see
visitors, scanning them for a moment.
Red lifted a hand in greeting. We're Haru's friends, he said
quietly. The workers expression shifted,
not shocked, but softened by recognition of the funeral of
the few who might come today. Yes, please come in.
He stepped aside, holding the door open against the colt.
The family is still at the funeral hall, he said gently.
But they told me if any of Haru's friends came by, you're
welcome to look around, especially his room.
Isuki lowered his head, a quiet thank you forming in the small
movement. Ren nodded once, breeze drifting
in the cold air. They followed the work across
the porch toward the warm light spilling from inside, toward the
place where Haru had lived. The door closed softly behind
them. The farmhouse interior held the
warmth of a place used daily. The worker LED them to a short
hallway and stepped back, nodding toward the second door.
That's Haru's room, he said softly.
Everything says he left it. Then he returned to his chores,
leaving Yitsuki, and ran alone. R.E.M. pushed the door open
first. Haru's room was the room of a
man who had settled into a quieter season of life, the life
he chose after years of drifting.
The bed was neatly made, blanket corners tucked with a habit
formed through a routine rather than careful appearance.
A single pillow slightly indented A folded sweater at the
foot of the bed. Isuki stepped inside slowly.
I. Scanning the space was a
reverence that came from seeing the version of Haru he never
fully knew. The Haru returned to his
farmhouse year after year, until it became where he stayed.
Rensky found the bedside table almost immediately, The music
box, the odd, uneven sculpture like Peace he had crafted in
university, sat there, a thin layer of dust softening its
edges. Rent didn't touch it, but his
breast shifted, quiet and contained.
Isuki paused near the wooden rack.
A familiar winter coat hung there, the one he had sent Haru
during a cold Tokyo season. Not new anymore, the Cubs
slightly worn, the colour muted from use.
Haru had worn it often. Everything spoke quietly, of
life in motion. One Haru had been living fully,
even if gently, even if privately.
Red took a slow step deeper into the room.
Isuki stayed near the doorway, each taking a different side of
her life Haru had built after drifting out of theirs.
There was no dramatic realization, no tears, only a
room that felt real, immediate and warm.
A space that made Haru absence, sharper and yet strangely
comforting. This was the version of Haru the
world saw last, the version who had finally chosen a home, a
rhythm, a steadiness, a man neither of them fully knew, but
both recognized. Wren's shoulder seized, Itsuki's
breast steadied. The room didn't feel empty.
It fell, paused. Haru's room held them gently,
the way quiet places sometimes hold grief for people who don't
know how to place it. Wren stood near the bedside
table, Itzuki near the desk, neither rushing, neither trying
to fill the space with words. It felt wrong to move too
quickly, and equally wrong to linger.
Itzuki reached into his back and lifted the repaired music box,
wrapped still in the class Wren had used the night before.
His hands were steady, not trembling, not unsure, simply
respectful. He crossed a small room, each
step soft against the worm wooden floor, and stopped at
Haru's desk. There was enough space cleared
at the center, a natural gap among the notebook and the farm
locks, as if this was where Haru might have placed something he
meant to return to. Yizuki kept his hands on the
cloth for a moment before letting it fall open and placed
it in the desk. He stepped aside.
Ren watched from a few steps away, breast slowing in a soft,
steady rhythm. The gesture didn't startle him.
It felt right, as though the box had finally found its way back
to the place it had been meant to rest.
Ren approached then. He didn't reach for the box
either, he only stood close enough that the melody seemed as
if it could rise if either of them wanted it.
Wren lowered his head slightly, a gesture small yet full, as if
acknowledging the years between the boy he once knew and the men
who lived in this room. Yizuki gazed, soft and at the
coat hanging, worn, used, loved in a way he'd never been told
but could now plainly see. For a long moment they simply
stood there, not remembering the same Haru, not grieving him the
same way, but honouring him side by side in the space he last
called home. When they finally stepped back
from the desk, the room stayed warm, as though Haru was still
walking it's edges. They stepped out of the
farmhouse together, boots meeting the cold with a soft,
steady crunch. The door clicked shut behind
them. The winter felt different now.
Not harsh, not biting, just clean.
The kind of cold that met you was clarity.
Rather than wait, R.E.M. pulled on his gloves while Izuki
adjusted the strap of his back, their movements unhurried,
shaped by a calm that had settled into them only minutes
earlier. The yard stretch open before
them, covered in a thin layer of fresh snow.
Their earlier footprints crossed the ground in wavering lines,
looping around the barn and the side paths where they had walked
before being invited inside. They started toward the car at
the same time the snow under foot grew.
Farmer near the parked car. I can take you to Supero
Station. Isuki nodded.
Thank you, that would help. Ran open the door.
The heater humped softly as the engine started.
Snow shifted beneath the tires as they pulled onto the narrow
farm Rd. The farmhouse shrank behind
them, becoming a warm square of light in the white, and slowly,
gently, the snowfall erased their footprints.
Some melodies don't end when the hands that made them are gone.
They stay in the room they once filled, in the people who
carried them forward in the quiet place where love was left
unfinished. A winter can hold many stories.
The ones we shared, the ones we were too young to understand,
and the ones we've returned to only when the world grows still
enough to listen. For Ren and Izuki, this winter
was not a beginning and not a second chance.
It was a soft, unbroken truce that loving someone leaves a
shape in US, and carrying the shape is its own kind of grace.
The snow will fade, the roads will open.
Their lives will move again. This was Winter's last melody,
Chapter 5, the melody that belonged to him.
And though this story closes here, more stories will be on
this winter. Please like the video and
subscribe to gay Audio books. Thank you.