Chapter 4 — The Ringing (Ryū)

Morning in Sapporo. A studio, a metronome that seems to tick even when it’s off—and a thin whistle only he can hear.

Morning. Sapporo. Studio 2.

I unlock the door and switch on the heater. The room is small and clean: two chairs, a piano with a dull lid, a stand with a metronome that ticks even when it is off. I set my bag down, take out the recorder and a pencil, then press the piano’s middle C with my thumb. The note is steady.

Then I hear it—a thin, high whistle. Not from the room, but from inside my left ear.

I stop; the whistle stays. I push my jaw forward and swallow; it drops for half a second, then returns. I play C again, and the whistle sits above it like a faint line on a clear photo.

It’s fatigue, I tell myself. Yesterday ran late; I didn’t sleep well. The station brakes were loud. The heater in my apartment rattled.

I set the metronome to 60 and play scales. The whistle stays between notes—louder when the piano speaks, quieter when I stand very still.

At nine, the violinist arrives for warm-up, and we trade the usual lines: weather, snow on the tracks. He plays A to tune, and I hear two close tones beating against each other—his pitch, and something in my head. The beats don’t stop when he does. I keep my face neutral. “Good. Again.” He plays; I nod again.

We run the first movement; nothing falls apart. I miss one cue by a fraction and cover it, then make a note on the score: “watch bar 17.” I don’t write the real note I want to write: “left ear ringing.” I drink water and smile, letting the room think I am fine.

The room believes me.

At break I step into the hallway and don’t move for thirty seconds. The whistle is a thin wire in the quiet. I press my finger into the soft place behind my left ear. No change. I pull out my phone and type:

10:12 — left ear, high tone, constant, softer when jaw forward, louder after piano.

I put the phone away and go back in. We finish the session; the violinist thanks me and leaves. I sit alone for a minute and listen to the heater. The heater helps. It fills the space where the whistle feels biggest.

I pack up and step outside. The air is bright and hard. The whistle doesn’t care about weather. I walk to the station. The platform clock reads 11:38. A train to Otaru at 11:43.

I stand under the roof and let the wind make it sing; the singing roof is good. It hides the whistle. The departure chime rings on the far platform—do, so, la, so, do. It’s the same polite melody I’ve heard since I was a child. Today it sounds thinner. I hum along to check; my hum and the chime miss on the second note. My mouth says yes. My ear says no.

I try again, softer, adjusting my jaw. It’s closer, but I’m not sure. The first small, stupid fear arrives. I tell it to wait.

Footsteps behind me. “Hey,” Yūki says.

I turn. She carries her bag. There is snow on her coat. She looks rested, but her eyes know the weather. We stand side by side and watch the clock.

“Work?” she asks.

“Yes. You?”

“Collecting,” she says. “Faces right after the chime. And the roof when the wind comes from the harbor.”

“Platform three will sing in a minute,” I say.

The chime rings again. She hums one note under it without thinking, and it lands clean. I hear her more easily than I hear the chime. I fix her pitch in my head. I keep it.

We ride the local. The car is warm. The windows fog at the corners. A child taps a can against the seat back in a steady beat. The tap is a good metronome; my ear likes it, and the whistle slips behind it.

“Long morning?” she asks.

“Normal,” I say. “The violinist was early.” I don’t mention the whistle. I don’t know yet what it is. I don’t want it to become real by saying it out loud.

She shows me her camera—contact sheets from yesterday and today. I recognize the heater tick marks she drew on the edge. I like the order of them. They make sense.

“What about you?” I ask.

“Letters I won’t post,” she says, simple as that. “And a video I turned into something else.”

She plays me ten seconds of borrowed weather—vent hum, air moving by a doorway, the tiny movements of a phone in someone’s hand. It is calm. It helps.

Otaru. We get off. The roof hums in the wind, like she said. She records the screws and the lines while I record the roof. The whistle is still there, but the roof is louder. Relief.

We walk down toward the canal. The streets are clear. The snow makes a soft sound under boots. No one speaks for a block. It is an easy silence.

At the corner the stray cat walks out from under a bench and joins us, like it signed up for a shift. It rubs its side against Yūki’s boot. The bell at its neck rings—just off E. I know that note. I know where it should sit. Today I can’t lock onto it right away.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“A little,” she says.

We stop by a stand for two steamed buns and eat leaning against a wall. Heat comes through the paper quickly. The cat eyes the buns and then loses interest. The bell rings again. Yūki hums a breath-length under it—just enough to steady it. The bell sounds closer to itself on the next ring. I watch that and file it away.

“What will you do with the caption marks?” I ask. “On your wrist.”

“Print them,” she says. “Large. Then hang them next to a photo that looks like nothing except a wall. With sound under it that you only hear if you stand still.”

“Good,” I say. It is good. It is hers.

I want to tell her about the whistle. I don’t. Not yet. I don’t want it to change her face when she looks at me. I want one more day of normal.

We walk the canal once. She photographs the water against the stone. I collect the sound of the chain rubbing on the bollard. The cat sits and watches us work. It gives a small sneeze and looks offended at itself. The bell rings again.

Near the third lamp, she stops and slides a blue airmail envelope deeper into her bag so it won’t slip out again, then checks the zipper and nods to herself. I don’t look at the writing on the flap. I don’t need to.

She points at the railing. “Found one of your magnets?”

“Not today,” I say. “But the iron remembers. You can hear it if you try.”

She pulls out a refrigerator magnet—the crab one—presses it flat, and slides it along. The railing hums. We both smile. It is a small, sane sound.

“Thank you for yesterday,” she says. “For the tea. For letting the room finish my idea.”

“It was your idea,” I say. “The room only helped.”

We part at the corner. She goes uphill. I go to the bus stop. The cat follows her. The bell rings and then rings again, cleaner. I hear the difference because she set it right with her breath. I keep that in mind.

Back in Sapporo by evening, the whistle is still with me. I go straight to the small music room in my apartment building. It has a keyboard and a table. The heater here makes a low, even hum.

The hum is good.

I put the recorder on the table and play A on the keyboard, then E, then the JR chime notes as best as I can on a piano. I hum with each one. My hum drifts sharp on the second note if I don’t watch it; I adjust my jaw and it steadies. I put my palm flat on the table and feel the vibrations through the wood. It helps more than the sound in the air.

I take a pitch pipe from my bag. I blow A, and the whistle sits on top. I blow E and hear it—and I don’t. It’s like seeing a light through fog. There and not there. I try the cat’s bell note from memory. Without signs around it, I can’t place it. I don’t like that. I make a short recording anyway—just my voice humming what I think it is. I title the file:

CAT_BELL_APPROX_01

Then I record ten seconds of the room with no playing—heater, faint building noise, my breath. The whistle sits above it like a very thin wire. I title that file:

ROOM_EVENING_LEFT_TONE_01

I sit a minute longer. I don’t want to name it yet. I don’t want to give it a medical word. I want a day to watch it like weather.

I open a small notebook—not the ledger, just a working pad—and write:
• left ear, high tone, constant since morning
• jaw forward reduces slightly
• louder after piano, softer in street noise
• matched better when Yūki hummed
• test again tomorrow after sleep

I close the notebook, drink water, and pack up.

In the hall a neighbor’s child drops a coin. It spins, sings, and falls flat. My ear tells me the key. The whistle sits on top again like a second coin that never lands.

In my apartment I heat soup. I don’t add music or turn on the TV. I sit at the table and eat while the heater keeps its even tone. The tone helps; the whistle becomes part of it. When I lift my spoon, I can hear the whistle again on its own. I set the spoon down slower and take smaller bites.

Before bed I send myself a short message so I won’t forget:

buy notched earplugs
try bone-conduction test again
avoid loud rooms this week
keep listening. don’t panic.

I lie down. The pillow makes the whistle louder in the left ear, so I turn to the right; it softens. I breathe and count. The whistle stays. I close my eyes anyway and go through the day in order to keep my mind from running ahead: Studio 2. Violin A. Roof hum. Platform chime. Yūki’s hum. Cat bell. Magnet on iron. Steamed bun. Canal. Keyboard. Pitch pipe. Recorder files. Heater.

I hold Yūki’s pitch in my head—the one she sang under the chime without thinking—and match my breath to it. Slow. Even. The whistle doesn’t go away, but it sits further back when I do this. That is enough for now.

The room is dark. The heater clicks once and continues. I leave the recorder on the nightstand without pressing record. I listen until the whistle stops feeling like a stranger and starts feeling like one more thing in the room. Then I sleep.

In the morning I will check again. I will not say anything yet. I will wait for one more data point. I will keep working. I will keep the city’s sounds in front of the whistle as long as I can. And when I can’t, I will find another way. For now, I rest.

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Asuka Hotaru’s Room

Thank you for reading Chapter 4. This one sits close to the ear—small sounds, steady breaths, and the things we don’t name until we have to. I’m keeping the cadence plain and film-quiet for AQP: simple lines, tactile details, and romance through restraint. I hope the roof hum and that little bell stay with you a while.

If a line or moment stayed with you, tell me which one. I love hearing the echoes you catch.

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The sound fades, but its shape stays behind, waiting.