Yumi fell silent for a few seconds. Sumire's words had been simple, almost dry, but just imagining - if only for an instant - what it would feel like to stand where Sora was standing made her head throb.
"So he's the type who grows fast under pressure?" she asked at last, still staring through the glass into the studio.
"Naturally," Sumire replied, calm as always.
Yumi let out a small laugh - half amused, half sharp.
"That makes it even more interesting. If that's the case, when I threw those bold claims of his online, I should've gone harder. Poured on more oil, made it even more dramatic… really tightened the noose. Maybe with more pressure he'll make Natsume Yuujinchou even better. Who knows - maybe it'll even beat the four major networks' anime in ratings."
Sumire turned her head slowly, studying her.
"So you… don't believe what he said?"
"Of course I don't," Yumi answered frankly, without hesitation. "Look, nothing in this world is a true zero-percent chance. But this? I'd say it doesn't even reach five. Still, you can't just crush the director's pride to his face, can you? He's still a kid. Kids dream. That's normal."
She folded her arms, her gaze pinned to Sora on the other side of the glass, surrounded by sheet music and musicians.
"I love Natsume Yuujinchou, honestly. But I also know liking something doesn't mean it wins the market. If it did, we wouldn't have so many hollow shows selling like crazy and scoring high just off hype. The capital gap is too big. They spend ¥40, ¥50 million just on production, then burn a few more million on marketing. Losing to Natsume? The odds are absurdly low. Vozes de uma Estrela Distante is the best example - everybody in the fandom agreed it was one of the best titles of the winter cour… and even then, on Blu-ray, it only ranked fifth."
Yumi shrugged as if she were stating the obvious.
"My 'stunts' from a while back were just that - a way to shove Natsume into the conversation. Worst case, Sora loses a bit of face. But the attention and curiosity we got are real, and nobody can take that away."
She tilted her head, almost pleased with her own logic.
"And in the end, even the 'haters' watch. If Maki's fans show up at premiere time just to see how 'bad' it is - out of sheer curiosity - and that gives Natsume Yuujinchou even a few extra rating points… I'll take that as a win."
Sumire didn't answer right away. She stared into the studio for a while, as if listening to something that didn't come from sound, but from the silence between one line and the next.
"Even so…" she said at last, her voice softer than usual. "I think what the director said… is going to become reality."
Yumi blinked, genuinely surprised.
"You're serious? You have that much faith in him? Sumire, you've been in this industry for years. Don't tell me you're into fantasies too."
Sumire kept her expression composed. There was no obvious emotion in her eyes - only a quiet steadiness, almost unsettling.
"If I go by logic alone, my judgment is exactly the same as yours. After seeing the quality of the PV for The Dragon King Next Door! and the other three flagship titles from the four networks, I think the same way you do."
A small, restrained smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"But people don't live on reason alone. There's also what we feel. And what I feel… is that I want to believe in Natsume Yuujinchou. I want to believe in the director."
Yumi almost blurted You've got to be kidding. Intuition, sixth sense… she'd learned early how fragile those things could be. If instinct were that reliable, half the world wouldn't fall for pretty promises and people who knew exactly what to say.
But arguing with Sumire felt pointless. Worse - it felt too petty for the atmosphere in that room.
"So that's why you stayed with this company?" Yumi asked after a moment. "That's why you decided to keep working here?"
Sumire nodded.
"Yes. I have this feeling that if I stay by the director's side… one day we'll make something that will shake the industry. A true classic - something no one forgets, something that won't age even decades from now."
She said it like a private confession, not a delusion.
"And deep down, that's why I chose to work in anime in the first place. That's always been my ultimate goal."
Yumi went quiet. Without meaning to, the two of them let the topic die there. Their eyes drifted back to the same place: Sora inside the studio, patiently explaining how each passage should be played, as if the music were just another piece of the episode he was still building with his own hands.
…
Nearly two weeks later, Sumire and Yumi finally saw what Sora had truly been preparing for Natsume Yuujinchou: a draft of the opening theme, a draft of the ending theme, and beyond that, a set of smaller tracks - seven, eight ideas for insert songs and scene cues, all in demo form, polished enough to be judged.
Yumi stared at him like she was looking at an alien.
And this time, even Sumire couldn't hide that something about it felt… wrong - wrong in the most unbelievable way.
Sora was already buried under work. Script, storyboards, supervision, revisions, meetings, pressure from regional affiliates… and yet he'd shown up with that volume of music as if he'd pulled it straight out of thin air.
Even genius didn't manufacture time out of nothing. Creating still demanded space, a clear head, inspiration.
One or two tracks? Sure. Plausible.
Ten, twelve - an entire package?
Where was it coming from?
In the end, Sora only shrugged and cited examples from Japan's own music world - those rare composers who fell into a nearly feverish state and spilled dozens of ideas in a matter of days, like creativity was an engine pinned at high rpm. It wasn't exactly an explanation, but it was enough to make the impossible feel… slightly less impossible.
Then he got straight to the point, with a confidence that was almost irritating.
"Listen first. If neither of you thinks there's anything off, then we lock it in. These will be the tracks for Natsume Yuujinchou."
He set two pairs of headphones on the table and pushed a laptop toward them, as if handing over a decision he'd already made inside his own head.
Sumire took a slow breath and picked up the first set. Yumi followed, still suspicious - not out of spite, but because accepting talent like that, that close up, bruised something in her pride.
She'd learned piano and violin when she was younger. She understood harmony, tempo, how a melody held itself together.
And precisely because of that, she knew: playing an instrument and truly composing were separated by an abyss.
With the headphones on, Yumi dragged the cursor.
The first track opened with a simple name: "Preview."
It was the piece Sora said he liked most - the one meant to play when memories of Natsume Reiko surfaced, when the story brushed against that past that always carried a quiet, aching nostalgia.
The sound was born slowly.
And the moment the melody settled, both of their expressions shifted - almost at the same time.
It wasn't a mood that tried to be "grand." It didn't force emotion down your throat. It just arrived… and stayed. Like an afternoon that ran too long, like a loneliness you don't realize you're carrying until someone touches it.
After only a few seconds, that restrained sadness began to rise without asking permission.
Sumire held steady, but her breathing grew heavier.
Yumi, on the other hand, felt a sudden tightness in her chest that caught her off guard. And when her mind - on its own - pulled up imagined scenes from Natsume Yuujinchou, the knot in her throat came right along with it.
That was it. The power of an anime was never in a single element. It was the combination: visuals, story, music. When it clicked, it became something larger than the sum of its parts.
When the track ended, Sumire slid one earcup off slightly, drawing in air like she'd just surfaced from underwater.
Yumi sat there, staring - her gaze flicking between the demo files on the laptop and Sora's face, so young it was almost irritating.
She opened the second track: "Natsu Yuuzora."
Then came the others: "Mita Natsu," "Takaramono," "Tenohira no Negai"…
One by one.
It wasn't music that tried to be a "hit." It wasn't meant to shine on its own. But as the tracks played, a single word began to take shape in both their minds - inevitable, insistent.
It fit.
It was appropriate.
It belonged to the story.
Before listening, they'd still been imagining what kind of "style" Natsume Yuujinchou would have. Now that imagination was being crushed by reality - and for the first time, it didn't feel like a bad thing.
By the time they finished, nearly half an hour had passed.
Sumire set the headphones down carefully, as if she could still feel the notes lingering inside her.
"I don't see any issues," she said, her voice lower, almost respectful. "What the director composed is… really good. Even if we hired a big professional music company to custom-make the soundtrack… I don't think it would end up this fitting."
Yumi parted her lips, stared at Sora for one more second, and the line slipped out before she could filter it:
"You… being an anime director is a loss for Japan's music industry."
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