When I was only eight, I realized just how enormous the sky was.
At school, I'd stare at the clouds with my head tilted back, following them—slow and soft, like cotton candy.
Sometimes I envied the birds, too… so free it almost hurt to watch them move through the air.
"Rin, you're in the clouds again," a classmate told me once, with that quiet little laugh that wasn't exactly mean… but it wasn't kind either.
I blinked, like I'd just remembered I was supposed to be here.
I didn't answer.
I just lowered my gaze.
And so, clinging to my thoughts, I wondered once…
Did I do that so much because I was too lonely?
Or because I simply didn't care about the same things the other girls talked about—new dolls, hairstyles, or the "prettiest" nail color?
It seemed boring to me.
And I don't think I was wrong.
It's just… my mind drifted somewhere else.
After school, I liked walking on my way home.
It was a short route; I knew it by heart.
I didn't live far—only fifteen minutes…
But I always counted them the same way.
One… two… three…
Fifteen minutes that went by so fast while I looked around.
Squirrels climbing trees.
People walking their little dogs.
Leaves rolling along, pushed by the wind.
I was easily distracted, yeah.
But maybe it was also because the scenery around me always felt beautiful.
I live in Hakone, in Yumoto.
Here, the air sometimes smells like hot water and damp stone, like the town is breathing steam.
I'd cross a couple of streets and already see the station…
Where tourists pass by with huge suitcases that go clack-clack over the ground.
The train announced itself with a distant chime.
And all of it, for some reason, calmed me down.
"I'm back…" I said as I stepped into my parents' ryokan—a small inn where tourists stayed the night and bathed in hot springs.
Inside, it was always warm.
Sometimes it smelled like tea.
Sometimes like clean soap.
Sometimes like wood.
"Mom, do you need help with anything?"
My mom—Miyako Hoshino—looked up and smiled with that lovely voice she used with guests.
"Ah, Rin, welcome home. Today is quiet. There are rice crackers in the house—why don't you go grab some? But wash your hands before you eat."
When she said "wash them," she said it like she was also putting the whole world back in order.
And I obeyed.
A small bell rang at the reception, and my dad straightened up fast.
"Oh! There's my princess," my dad, Takeshi Hoshino, said from the hallway, leaning over a sliding door that smelled like freshly sanded wood. "When I'm done fixing this, I'll get one too."
My dad always had sawdust stuck to his clothes.
Like the wood never wanted to let him go.
And when he smiled, his eyes did it first.
Whenever I got home from school, I tried to help at the ryokan.
Even though they almost always gave me simple tasks, like folding towels or sheets.
I liked the order of things.
The soft rustle of fabric.
The steam slipping through the corridors whenever someone opened a door.
And when there was nothing left to do—or when they told me to go rest—I'd cross into the house right behind the ryokan.
I took off my shoes at the entrance and went to the kitchen.
"Rice crackers… crackers…" I murmured as I opened drawers. "Here they are."
If I didn't have homework, I'd turn on the TV and sit down to eat, listening to the dry crunch between my teeth.
"I'm bored…"
The television stayed on, but I wasn't paying attention.
My eyes had drifted to the window again…
To the sky.
Until a melody made me turn.
I moved closer without realizing it.
It was a music special.
And then I heard that voice.
I stopped chewing.
Truly.
Like my body had forgotten how.
My skin prickled, as if the air had suddenly turned cold.
I didn't know who she was…
But I wanted to stay right there.
I wanted it not to end.
And in that instant, I knew I wanted to keep hearing her.
The show on the TV introduced her as Shirayuri Fuyuka—"The Diva."
It was the first time something truly managed to pull me in.
The melody, combined with the elegant tones of her voice, made me imagine a field of white flowers covered by a gentle snowfall.
Without noticing, I let my eyes fall half-closed, as if I could feel winter's delicate cold while she sang.
In the middle of the song, my dad walked into the living room, drying his hands with a cloth.
"The Diva, huh?" he said, watching the screen. "Even I can tell she's gotten really famous."
"Her voice…" I murmured, never taking my eyes off the TV. "She's so beautiful."
My dad let out a soft laugh.
"Haha, yeah… you like her music?"
"Yes!" I answered instantly, without even thinking.
"She's been everywhere lately," he added. "She's made a real difference compared to the singers now."
Back then, I didn't really understand what my dad meant.
But I couldn't stop looking at her.
She looked like a moon princess…
The kind you see in fairy tales.
When the song ended, I stayed still.
Like the air was still full of her.
Like her voice was still floating around the room, clinging to the walls.
Without realizing it, I leaned toward the screen and narrowed my eyes, searching for her name again.
Shirayuri Fuyuka.
I repeated it in my head, careful with every syllable.
Like it was a spell.
That night, I wrote it on a little scrap of paper in my crooked handwriting.
And I kept it.
Like it was a secret.
And I didn't know it yet, but from that afternoon on…
a voice stayed living inside me,
like an echo.