“Next time, I’ll definitely be in the competition… right?”

  “Someday, everyone will hear my song again… right?”

  That’s what I kept telling myself in the beginning, right after I was hospitalized.

  The medicine they gave me had taken away the headaches, so I thought I was getting better.

  But the treatments were strong. Strong enough that I started sleeping more and more.

  And soon, the medicine made me so dizzy I couldn’t even leave the room without someone pushing me in a wheelchair.

  I had been inside this hospital for what felt like forever.

  I hadn’t seen my friends, or my electone teacher, in weeks.

  Maybe they didn’t want to see me because I was sick.

  And honestly… I didn’t want anyone to see me anymore, either.

  The first time I looked in the mirror, I screamed.

  My hair—when I combed it—came out in handfuls.

  Who is that girl? That can’t be me.

  After that, I started wearing a knit cap.

  The kind you wear when you go skiing.

  It helped, a little.

  You still look cute. It’s okay.

  Then the medicine changed again, and things got worse.

  I started feeling sick all the time.

  I couldn’t eat.

  I was losing weight—my legs looked so thin and weak.

  I couldn’t even stand up anymore.

  That’s when I really understood:

  This isn’t just some little sickness. This is serious.

  “Mom… am I going to die? When will I get better?”

  Mom looked away, worried, then smiled a little.

  “It’s okay. The doctors are still trying to find the right medicine for you. Let’s wait and see, together.”

  “You’re lying! I’m not going to get better, am I?

  Every time I ask, everyone just gets sad.

  Why won’t you just tell me the truth?!

  If you won’t, then don’t come here anymore!”

  I knew I was being mean.

  I just didn’t want anyone to keep pretending anymore.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  If I really wasn’t going to get better…

  Does that mean I’ll never do anything again?

  Just say goodbye, and that’s it?

  Am I really… going to die?

  I stopped talking to everyone.

  I just stayed in bed watching videos on the tablet Dad gave me.

  Nothing was fun anymore. Nothing felt worth doing.

  Still, Mom came every day.

  Dad came whenever he had a day off.

  They tried to talk to me, but I didn’t know what face to make anymore, so I just hid under the covers.

  I think they knew.

  They could tell I was starting to give up.

  So they started talking to the doctors.

  And eventually, they decided to tell me everything.

  Mom didn’t want to.

  But Dad said, “She needs to know. She has the right to choose her own tomorrow.”

  “…Whatever she decides,” Mom finally said, “we’ll do everything we can. Together.”

  That’s when the doctor told me the name of my illness:

  Pediatric brain cancer. Resistant to treatment.

  “It’s hard to cure,” he said gently.

  “But some kids do get better—with surgery or the right medicine. So it’s not impossible.”

  And honestly… I was glad.

  Because now I knew.

  And if I knew, maybe I could still do the things I wanted to do.

  “How long do I have?” I asked.

  Mom looked like she was about to cry.

  Dad gently put a hand on my shoulder.

  “If all goes well… maybe a year,” the doctor said.

  “There are kids who’ve recovered and gone home. So let’s not give up hope.”

  He was trying to be kind.

  I could tell.

  And strangely, I felt… calm.

  Yeah… I’ve been hurting so much, I stopped thinking about anything but the pain.

  But now—now I could think about what I wanted.

  “I want to share my music again. I want people to hear it.”

  If that’s what I wanted, then I would give it everything I had.

  Forget everything else.

  That’s when I found this weird old guy in a video.

  Bamboo Flute Panda（a street performer I found online）.

  He plays the flute in random places—beaches, mountains… anywhere.

  He messes up sometimes. A lot, actually. But he looks like he’s having the time of his life.

  “Who is this guy? He’s not very good,” Mom said.

  “But he looks like he’s having fun,” I said.

  Wouldn’t it be nice to play music like that?

  When I performed, I was always nervous.

  Don’t mess up.

  What will they think of my song?

  But this guy just… played. For fun.

  Was I ever that free?

  “Maybe it’s because no one’s watching,” Mom said with a laugh.

  “Mistakes don’t matter when it’s just you.”

  “Or maybe he just doesn’t care,” I said, laughing too.

  And Mom laughed back.

  We hadn’t laughed together in so long.

  “Hey… should we send him a message?”

  “Wait, really? He’s just some old guy. I mean, he seems nice, but… what would we even say?”

  “How about: Your music made me smile. I want to play like that too.”

  So I wrote:

  Hi, Mr. Bamboo Flute Panda.

  Your music looked so fun.

  I used to play music too, but I always worried about making mistakes.

  How do you play so freely—even when you mess up?

  Mom looked horrified.

  “That’s rude! He won’t write back if you say that!”

  “Too late. I already sent it.”

  And… he actually replied. Right away.

  To HARUKA,

  I play music because it makes me happy.

  Sure, it’s good to play the right notes, but “perfect” music is too hard for me.

  It’s okay to mess up.

  If it feels fun in your heart—that’s music.

  You know, the word “music” means “to enjoy sound.”

  “Mom,” I asked, “do you think he ever had a teacher?

  Because teachers always want you to fix your mistakes.”

  “Maybe not,” Mom said. “Maybe his only rule is: have fun. No do-overs.”

  “Right… just play the song that’s in your heart, however it comes out.

  That’s music too.”

  And I smiled.

  It made me happy.

  Even that kind of music was okay.

  If that’s all it takes… maybe I can play again.

  Maybe I can still make music.

  Otogibanashi—my piece—it was like that too.

  It was made of memories:

  Going to concerts with Mom and Dad.

  The city lights on the way home.

  The hamburger I ate afterwards.

  A dream I had on the train.

  The time Dad gave me a piggyback ride and I pretended to be asleep because I was too happy to say anything.

  All of that—turned into sound.

  “Mom, I want to make music again.

  But… we can’t have instruments here, can we?”

  “No… but maybe Dad knows something. These days, people compose on tablets, don’t they?”

  “You think I could do that too?

  I can’t play out loud… but what if I just wrote music?

  Maybe this tablet could help.”

  And for the first time in a long time, I felt a little happy.

  Yeah… hearing the truth had made me sad.

  But this?

  This felt like hope.

  “Dad… can I get a music app?”

  Later that day, Dad set one up for me.

  It had a tiny keyboard on the screen, and when I tapped it, soft sounds came out.

  I could write music again.

  And every time I tapped, I felt something bloom inside me.

  The notes danced across the screen.

  “Oh… that sound is beautiful…

  This is… fun.”

  Before, I’d always worry about chords and structure and resonance.

  But not anymore.

  Now I just wanted to write what I felt.

  To bring out the sounds I wanted to hear.

  That was enough.

  Because music…

  sets the heart free.

  And that’s okay…

  isn’t it, Uncle Panda?