Chapter 3 — A Song That Only You Knew

The song grew with us over the next several afternoons.

Not quickly.

Children are excellent at beginning things and terrible at finishing them.

One day we wrote two lines. The next day we forgot them and replaced them with three worse ones. Sometimes we spent more time arguing about a word than singing the entire song.

Eventually, though, we had a first stanza.

Then a chorus.

“We need a second stanza,” she said.

“Tomorrow.”

“You always say tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is useful.”

“For lazy people.”

“Exactly.”

She laughed and sang the chorus again.

Her voice was already prettier than any voice a child had a right to have.

I never told her that.

Compliments were dangerous things between children. One sincere sentence could become a weapon used against you for the next three months.

Instead I said,

“You missed a note.”

Her singing stopped.

She slowly turned toward me.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I did not!”

“You definitely did.”

“Then sing it yourself.”

“I composed it. I’m exempt.”

“That is not a rule.”

“It is now.”

Her eyes narrowed.

I recognized that look.

“...What?”

She stood.

I stood.

Neither of us moved.

Then she lunged toward me.

“Take it back!”

“No!”

I ran.

She chased me halfway across the playground.

“You missed the note!”

“I DID NOT!”

“You did!”

“COME BACK HERE!”

“Why would I do that?!”

“SO I CAN HIT YOU!”

“That’s exactly why!”

We ran around the slide, past the swings, around one of the trees, and almost collided with two younger children.

Eventually, my legs surrendered.

I stopped near the playground entrance, breathing heavily.

She caught up a few seconds later and bent forward, hands on her knees.

“You...” She took a breath. “...are the worst.”

I stepped back just in case she still had enough energy to attack me.

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I accepted it as one.”

She tried to glare at me.

It would’ve been more intimidating if she weren’t struggling to breathe.

Then—

Grrrrr.

We both froze.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

“...Was that you?”

Her face immediately turned red.

“No.”

Grrrrrr.

I smiled.

“Your stomach disagrees.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“Your face did.”

I opened my mouth.

Grrr.

This time, the sound came from me.

Her embarrassment vanished.

Slowly, she smiled.

Oh no.

“Don’t.”

“Running makes people hungry, huh?”

“Shut up.”

She burst out laughing.

Fortunately, there was a small snack shop not far from the playground.

It wasn’t anything fancy.

Just one of those little neighborhood stores that sold almost everything a child considered important, cold drinks, bread, candy, fried snacks, and several things our parents probably would have preferred us not to eat before dinner.

But there was one thing I always noticed first.

The waffles.

The smell reached me before we even arrived.

Warm.

Sweet.

Fresh from the iron.

I immediately forgot that my legs were tired.

She noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you walking faster?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

I ignored her and approached the counter.

The waffles were right there.

Beautiful.

Golden.

Perfect.

“What are you getting?” she asked.

“The waffle.”

“The waffle?”

“Yes.”

She stared at me.

Then frowned.

“You’re copying me.”

I looked at her.

“What?”

“I was going to get the waffle.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I was thinking it.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I decided first.”

“I said it first.”

“I thought it first.”

“How am I supposed to know what you’re thinking?”

“That’s your problem.”

“That’s not how problems work!”

“It is now.”

I stared at her.

She smiled triumphantly.

“...You stole that from me.”

“Stole what?”

“‘It is now.’”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You literally heard me say that earlier!”

“I thought of it first.”

“You—”

A laugh came from behind the counter.

We both stopped.

The shop owner was watching us.

An older woman stood there with an amused smile.

“Are you two going to order,” she asked, “or argue until the shop closes?”

We immediately pointed toward the waffles.

“One waffle, please.”

We looked at each other.

“I said it first.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I definitely did.”

“You copied me again!”

“How can I copy you if we said it at the same time?”

The shop owner laughed.

“All right, all right.”

She reached for two waffles.

We finally stopped arguing.

I reached into my pocket for my coins.

The girl did the same.

But the owner shook her head.

“No need.”

We both paused.

“Huh?”

She placed one waffle in front of each of us.

“These are on me.”

My eyes widened.

“Really?”

“Really.”

I looked at the waffle.

Then at her.

“Free?”

She laughed.

“Yes. Free.”

There were few words more beautiful to a child.

The girl beside me looked equally amazed.

“Thank you!”

“Thank you!”

We bowed so quickly we almost bumped heads.

The owner laughed again.

“But there’s one condition.”

I immediately became suspicious.

Free food always had consequences.

“What?”

“You two stop fighting.”

“We’re not fighting,” I said.

“Yes, we are,” the girl said.

I turned toward her.

“Whose side are you on?”

The owner laughed.

“Be good children. No fighting, okay?”

The girl nodded enthusiastically.

“I will.”

Then she pointed at me.

“But he won’t.”

“What?!”

She took her waffle.

“I’m a good child.”

“No, you’re not!”

The owner raised an eyebrow at me.

I immediately lowered my voice.

“...She’s lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You chased me around the playground!”

“Because you deserved it.”

“See?!”

The owner covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

“Go eat your waffles.”

We obeyed.

Mostly because arguing was difficult when your mouth was full.

We sat near the playground again.

I took my first bite.

Warm.

Crispy around the edges.

Soft inside.

Sweet.

Perfect.

I closed my eyes.

“...Wow.”

She stared at me.

“It’s just a waffle.”

I opened my eyes.

“Just?”

“Yes.”

I pointed at her waffle.

“Give it back.”

She immediately pulled it away.

“No!”

“You don’t appreciate it.”

“I appreciate it!”

“You called it ‘just a waffle.’”

“Because it is!”

“Then give it to me.”

“No!”

I reached toward it.

She turned away.

“Get your own!”

“I have my own.”

“Then eat yours!”

“I am!”

We looked at each other.

Then started laughing.

For a while, we simply sat there eating.

No song.

No arguing about lyrics.

No running.

Just two children sharing an afternoon.

She swung her legs slightly as she ate.

Then she looked at my waffle.

“Yours is bigger.”

I looked down.

“They’re exactly the same.”

She held hers beside mine and inspected them with unnecessary seriousness.

“No. Yours definitely has more.”

“More what?”

“Waffle.”

I stared at her.

“That’s not a measurement.”

She reached toward mine.

I immediately pulled it away.

“Hey!”

“If they’re the same, trade with me.”

“No.”

She pointed accusingly.

“See?”

“That proves nothing!”

She laughed.

I did too.

And strangely...

I don’t remember what happened to the second stanza that afternoon.

Maybe we forgot about it.

Maybe we decided tomorrow was still useful.

Maybe the waffle was simply more important.

But I remember the smell.

I remember sitting beside her.

I remember arguing over which waffle was bigger even though they were probably exactly the same.

And I remember thinking that afternoons had somehow become more fun since she started appearing in them.

There was another thing that had changed because of her.

Something I absolutely had no intention of telling her.

I had started practicing our song at home.

Not composing it.

Actually singing it.

This was entirely her fault.

Listening to her sing every afternoon had somehow planted a ridiculous thought in my head.

Maybe I could do it too.

She always made it look easy.

Take a breath.

Follow the melody.

Sing the words.

Simple.

Apparently.

One evening, I sat on the edge of my bed with the paper containing our unfinished lyrics in my hands.

I looked toward the door.

Closed.

Good.

I cleared my throat.

Then, very quietly, I sang the first line.

...

I stopped.

No.

That wasn’t right.

I tried again.

Still wrong.

Maybe I had started too high.

I took another breath.

Third attempt.

Somehow worse.

I frowned at the paper.

How did she make this look so easy?

Humming was different.

I could hum the melody perfectly fine.

I knew every note.

I had made most of them.

But the moment I tried putting actual words behind them, my own song suddenly seemed to reject me.

I tried again.

And again.

Eventually, I made it through most of the first stanza without stopping.

I lowered the paper.

“...Not bad.”

Actually—

maybe I could do this.

I straightened my back.

This time, the chorus.

I took a breath.

Started singing.

Made it through the first line.

Then the second.

And—

My bedroom door opened.

I froze.

My younger sister, Hina, stood there.

I stared at her.

She stared at me.

The paper was still in my hands.

My mouth was still half-open.

Neither of us spoke.

Then her eyebrows slowly pulled together.

“...Brother?”

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

I immediately folded the paper.

“I’m fine.”

She stepped farther into the room, still looking genuinely concerned.

“I thought you were crying.”

I stared at her.

“Why would you think that?”

“I heard this strange sound from outside.”

...

Strange sound.

I narrowed my eyes.

“I was singing.”

Her expression changed.

“Oh.”

Then her eyes widened.

" Oh. "

“Don’t say it like that.”

“You were singing?”

“Trying to.”

“Since when?”

“Since you interrupted me.”

“No, I mean, since when does my brother voluntarily sing?”

“Apparently today.”

Her attention shifted toward the folded paper in my hand.

That was worse.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Brother.”

“Hina.”

She leaned sideways.

I moved the paper away.

“Is that a song?”

“Go away.”

Her eyes widened.

“You wrote it?”

I hesitated.

Only for a second.

Unfortunately, younger sisters could smell weakness.

Her entire face lit up.

“You DID!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You made a song?!”

“It’s not finished.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why did you make a song?”

“Because I wanted to.”

She stared at me.

I stared back.

Then that expression appeared.

The one younger sisters were apparently born knowing how to make.

A slow, suspicious smile.

“Brother...”

“No.”

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“I already don’t like it.”

She sat beside me.

“Why are you suddenly practicing singing?”

“I’m not suddenly practicing.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“I heard you.”

“Unfortunately.”

She leaned closer.

“Is it because of someone?”

My face warmed.

“No.”

Her smile grew.

“It is!”

“It isn’t!”

“A girl?”

“None of your business.”

Her eyes became enormous.

I realized my mistake immediately.

I should have said no.

“IT IS A GIRL!”

“I DIDN’T SAY THAT!”

“You said it’s none of my business!”

“Because it isn’t!”

She jumped off the bed.

“My brother is practicing a song for a girl!”

“I’m not practicing it for her!”

She stopped.

...

I stopped.

...

Her smile became terrifying.

“For her ?”

Oh no.

I closed my eyes.

I’d walked directly into that one.

She covered her mouth.

“You said ‘her.’”

“I know what I said.”

“So there is a girl.”

“Go away.”

“Who is she?”

“Go away.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Out.”

“Do you like her?”

“OUT.”

She ran toward the door, laughing.

“I’m telling Mom!”

I stood.

“YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW ANYTHING!”

“I know there’s a girl!”

“THERE ISN’T A—”

She disappeared into the hallway.

I stopped.

There was no winning anymore.

I walked over and shut the door.

Then—

click.

Locked.

There.

Problem solved.

I returned to my bed.

The room was quiet again.

I unfolded the lyrics.

Is it because of someone?

I stared at the first stanza.

“...No.”

Of course not.

I was practicing because it was my song too.

That was all.

It wasn’t because she sang it so easily.

It wasn’t because listening to her made me wonder what we’d sound like singing it together.

And it definitely wasn’t because some stupid part of me wanted to surprise her one afternoon by finally joining in.

Definitely not.

I raised the paper again.

Took a breath.

And quietly started the chorus from the beginning.

I still didn’t tell her I was practicing.

Some things were better kept secret.

Especially when you had a younger sister capable of turning them into ammunition.

Somewhere along those afternoons, I stopped measuring every word.

I didn’t notice when it happened.

At first, that small voice still followed me.

Careful.

Don’t talk too much.

Don’t tease too much.

But she made it difficult to listen.

I laughed too loudly.

Argued over waffles as though they were matters of national importance.

Told her stupid things.

Teased her without rehearsing the joke first.

And every time I thought maybe I’d gone too far—

she came back the next afternoon.

Again.

And again.

Until eventually, I stopped wondering whether she would.

I simply expected her to be there.

That might have been the first time since that afternoon behind the bushes that being comfortable around someone didn’t feel dangerous.

It felt...

easy.

Safe, even.

I didn’t have a word for that at nine years old.

I only knew that afternoons were better when she was there.

And maybe that was why—

when one afternoon finally went wrong—

I was completely unprepared for how much it would hurt. 111Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzcecVB4PtD

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