The Empty Painting
Aika Fujisawa dipped her brush into a deep pool of blue, the color spreading smoothly across the canvas. The after-school art room was quiet, save for the soft strokes of brushes and the occasional sigh of frustration from students struggling with their work. The scent of oil paints and wood shavings filled the air, familiar and comforting.
She took a step back, examining her nearly completed painting—a picturesque landscape of the riverbank near her home. The trees stood tall, their leaves rustling in an invisible breeze, and the water shimmered under the soft glow of a setting sun. The strokes were precise, the composition flawless.
And yet… something was wrong.
Aika frowned. Her fingers tightened around the brush. Why does it feel so empty?
She had followed every artistic rule, used the best techniques she had learned, but the painting still lacked something. It looked real but not alive.
A presence behind her made her straighten.
"Fujisawa-san."
She turned to see Professor Kondo, their art teacher, standing behind her with his arms crossed. His sharp eyes scanned the painting before letting out a quiet sigh.
"It's very well done," he said, nodding slightly. "Your technical skill is exceptional, as always."
Aika braced herself. She knew what was coming next.
"But… it lacks something."
She clenched her jaw.
"It's beautifully painted, but there's no soul in it," he continued. "It's as if you're painting with your hands, but not your heart."
Aika lowered her brush, staring at the piece with a sinking feeling in her chest.
"But I—" she started, then hesitated. She had spent hours on this painting, carefully selecting every shade, perfecting every tiny detail. Hadn't she put her feelings into it?
Professor Kondo studied her expression before softening his tone.
"Tell me, Fujisawa—when you look at this painting, do you feel something? Do you hear a story behind it? Or did you just focus on making it look beautiful?"
Aika opened her mouth, but no words came out.
That was the problem, wasn't it?
She wanted to express something, but the feeling never reached the canvas.
Professor Kondo sighed, giving her shoulder a gentle pat.
"You have great potential," he said. "But don't just paint what you see—paint what you feel. Try to challenge yourself."
He walked away, leaving Aika staring at her painting.
A challenge.
She bit her lip. How do you paint something you can't even put into words?
The Sound of Colors
The sky was painted in warm oranges and deep purples as Aika walked home, her canvas case slung over her shoulder. She replayed Professor Kondo's words in her head, frustration welling inside her.
"No soul." "No feeling." "Not you."
She sighed.
It wasn't that she didn't want to paint with emotion—it was that she didn't know how.
As she passed through the school courtyard, a faint sound stopped her in her tracks.
Music.
Soft, delicate piano notes drifted through the air like ripples on a pond. The melody was slow, wistful, yet strangely warm. It pulled at something inside her, stirring an unfamiliar ache.
She turned toward the old music building, where the sound was coming from. The building was rarely used now, its once-polished floors covered in dust, its hallways mostly empty. The doors were supposed to be locked after school, but someone had obviously found their way in.
Aika hesitated. Then, without fully knowing why, she followed the sound.
The music led her to one of the practice rooms at the end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar.
Peeking inside, she saw him.
Riku Asano.
He sat at the piano, his fingers moving effortlessly across the keys. His light brown hair fell over his eyes, his expression unreadable, completely immersed in the music.
Aika had seen him before—everyone in school had. Riku was infamous for being both a musical genius and a troublemaker, known for skipping classes and breaking rules. Some said he could hear things others couldn't, that his talent was unnatural.
Right now, watching him play, Aika almost believed it.
The melody swelled, filling the dimly lit room. It was… beautiful. She felt like she could reach out and touch it, like the notes had weight, texture, something beyond sound.
For the first time, she wasn't just hearing music—she was feeling it.
Suddenly, the music stopped.
Aika barely had time to react before Riku turned, his sharp gaze landing directly on her.
"You're the art girl, right?"
She stiffened, caught in the act. "Uh… what?"
Riku tilted his head slightly, studying her. Then, to her surprise, he smirked.
"What color was that song?"
Aika blinked. "Color?"
He tapped his temple. "Music has colors. Didn't you see them?"
She hesitated. "I just… heard it."
Riku exhaled, shaking his head as if disappointed. "Strange. You look like someone who'd see colors everywhere."
Aika frowned. "What does that even mean?"
Instead of answering, Riku turned back to the piano, resting his fingers on the keys.
"Wanna try something fun?" he asked.
She hesitated. "What kind of 'fun'?"
He smirked. "I'll play something, and you paint whatever you see in your head. No thinking—just feeling."
Aika hesitated. The idea sounded ridiculous. Painting without thinking? Without carefully planning?
But then she remembered Professor Kondo's words. Paint what you feel, not what you see.
Maybe this was the challenge she needed.
Slowly, she nodded. "Okay."
Riku's smirk widened as he turned back to the piano.
"Good," he murmured. "Let's see if I can make you see colors."
His fingers moved, and the melody began again.
Aika closed her eyes.
This time, she didn't try to analyze the notes, didn't try to break down the technique.
She just listened.
And in that moment, something incredible happened.
The music wasn't just sound anymore. It was movement, emotion, warmth.
And in her mind, for the first time in her life—
She saw streaks of blue and gold dancing in the air.