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MidReal Story
The Moonlit Serenade
Scenario:"Tsukuyomi-sama, per favore ascolta il mio desiderio!"
Io, Taghrid Ashraf, avevo alzato le mani verso la luna e gridato il mio desiderio.
Era un desiderio assurdo, eppure non riuscivo a trattenermi dal farlo.
Fin da quando ero bambina, sono stata affascinata dalle arti.
Amavo disegnare, scrivere storie e persino comporre musica.
Eppure, per quanto ci provassi, non riuscivo a creare nulla che potesse portare il mio nome.
Qualcosa che sarebbe ricordato dagli altri come la mia opera più grande.
Se solo potessi creare qualcosa del genere, allora sarei soddisfatta.
Quella era la brama del mio cuore.
E così, una notte, alzai le mani verso la luna e pregai per questo.
Per un dono concesso dalla luna.
Come se il dio della luna Tsukuyomi avesse udito il mio desiderio, una strana sensazione mi travolse.
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Taghrid Ashraf
She is a creative individual with a passion for the arts. She is determined, introspective, and hopeful. She struggles to leave a lasting mark on the world through her creations, yearning for recognition and fulfillment of her dream to be remembered as a great artist. Despite her efforts, including an unusual mooninspired prayer, she faces doubts and disappointment. Her encounter with a mysterious stranger and the enigmatic Moonlight Sonata changes her perspective and brings an unexpected sense of purpose.
Kaito
He is a mysterious musician with an otherworldly presence. He is enigmatic, charismatic, and compassionate. He appears in Taghrid's life unexpectedly after she hears him play the Moonlight Sonata. His music moves her deeply, evoking memories and emotions she had long sought to evoke in others. Though he remains largely silent and aloof, their connection is profound. He becomes an integral part of Taghrid's journey toward selfacceptance and artistic expression, ultimately leading her to Paris.
Tsukuyomi
He is the deity of the moon in Japanese mythology. He is distant, mysterious, and powerful. Taghrid seeks his assistance by offering him a cup of sake and asking for his help in creating something memorable. Though Tsukuyomi remains silent and seemingly unresponsive, his presence is felt strongly in the moments of creative inspiration that follow. His mythological role adds an element of wonder and magic to Taghrid's lifechanging encounter with Kaito.
"Lord Tsukuyomi, please hear my wish!"
I had raised my hands toward the moon and shouted my wish.
It was an absurd wish, yet I could not restrain myself from voicing it.
Ever since I was a child, I had been captivated by the arts.
I loved to draw, to weave tales, and even to compose music.
Yet as hard as I tried, I could not create anything that would be remembered as my greatest work.
Anything that would leave a lasting mark on this world and be remembered by others as my greatest creation.
If only I could create something like that, then I would be satisfied.
That was the yearning of my heart.
And so one night, I lifted my hands to the moon and prayed for it.
For a gift bestowed by the moon.
Tsukuyomi, the Japanese god of the moon, must have heard my wish.
The next night, under the light of the full moon, I had placed a cup of sake in front of him and asked for his help.
"Tsukuyomi, please grant me this one wish. Let me create something that will be remembered by others. Let me leave my mark upon this world."
I had bowed my head and pleaded with him.
I lower my hands, still trembling from my earnest prayer, when a haunting melody drifts through the night air.
The sound is faint but crystal clear - piano notes dancing on the evening breeze.
I turn toward the music, my feet moving before I realize it.
Following the melody through empty streets, past shuttered shops and dark houses.
Every window I pass reflects the full moon's silver glow.
The music grows stronger with each step, leading me to a small park.
Through iron gates, I see a grand piano bathed in moonlight, but the bench is empty.
The melody continues, echoing my unspoken promise to create something unforgettable.
I creep closer, my footsteps crunching on fallen leaves.
The keys move on their own, pressing down in perfect rhythm to create Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
Standing beside the instrument, I reach out to touch its polished surface but hesitate.
The music grows louder, more intense.
A figure materializes on the bench - a young man with silvery hair, his fingers now visible on the keys.
He doesn't acknowledge my presence, completely absorbed in the piece.
I circle the piano slowly, studying his ethereal appearance.
His hands move with inhuman grace, and moonlight seems to pass straight through him.
I circle the piano once more, my footsteps silent on the damp grass.
The musician's fingers continue their dance across ivory keys, each note of the Moonlight Sonata piercing the night air with crystalline clarity.
My heart pounds as I position myself at the corner of the piano, close enough to see the moonlight rippling through his translucent form.
The music swells to a crescendo, and I lean forward slightly, drawn by an inexplicable force.
My throat tightens as I gather my courage, not daring to speak above a whisper for fear he might vanish like morning mist.
"Who are you?"
The young man pauses, his fingers hovering above the keys as if deciding whether to answer.
"I am but a reflection of your deepest desire," he replies, his voice as ethereal as his form.
"But why do you play this piece?" I press, feeling the weight of his answer before it comes.
The ghostly pianist's fingers return to the keys without answering my question.
The Moonlight Sonata transforms into something darker, more personal - each note echoing through the night air with haunting familiarity.
I grip the edge of the piano, my knuckles turning white as images flash through my mind: torn sketches in my waste bin, deleted manuscripts on my computer, crumpled music sheets discarded in frustration.
His playing grows more intense, and I recognize my own failed attempts at creating something unforgettable in the desperate crescendos of his melody.
When I try to step back, my legs refuse to move.
The music holds me there, forcing me to relive each abandoned creation through its mournful progression.
I grip the edge of the piano until my knuckles turn white, fighting back tears as each discordant note brings forth another abandoned project: the half-finished novel gathering dust in my drawer, the portfolio of sketches I'd torn up last spring, the song sheets crumpled in my waste bin.
His fingers strike harder keys now, the sound sharp and accusatory.
When he hits a particularly jarring chord, my first tear falls onto the piano's polished surface.
The droplet catches moonlight, spreading like silver ink across the black finish.
Through my tears, I watch the silvery droplet spread across the piano's polished surface like mercury.
The ghost's fingers hover above the keys, his playing suddenly ceased.
The abrupt silence feels heavier than the music had been.
My voice comes out hoarse and broken as I force the words past the tightness in my throat: "Why do you play my failures?"
The spirit's head turns with unnatural slowness.
His moonlit eyes meet mine for the first time, piercing and ancient.
"Because they are the echoes that bind us."
I step back from the piano, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
The ghostly pianist's moonlit eyes follow my movement, but he doesn't turn his head further.
His fingers remain poised above the keys, as if waiting for my next question.
The weight of my artistic failures still hangs in the air between us, but something inside me has shifted.
"These memories - my failures - they're holding me back," I say, my voice growing stronger with each word.
"I need to know how to move past them."
He lowers his hands to the keys again, and this time when he begins to play, the melody is different - lighter, yet more complex.
As the music fills the park, I force myself to stand still and listen.
Each delicate note seems to untangle the knot of creative disappointment in my chest.
The melody weaves together elements I recognize - the rhythm of my abandoned poetry, fragments of melodies I'd once composed, even the flow of my discarded stories.
But this time, instead of bringing pain, these pieces merge into something unexpectedly beautiful.
My hands begin to move unconsciously, conducting along with the ethereal song.
When the ghostly pianist adds a countermelody that perfectly complements the main theme, I realize he's showing me something - that each of my "failures" was a building block, each one necessary for what comes next.
With newfound clarity, I step forward, ready to embrace the music yet to be written.
I approach the piano bench, and the ghostly figure slides over to make room for me.
My fingers tremble as I place them on the cool ivory keys beside his translucent hands.
He begins playing the upper melody of a piece I've never heard before, yet somehow know intimately.
After a moment's hesitation, I join in with the lower harmony, our music intertwining like moonlit streams.
Though his ethereal form casts no shadow, I feel the warmth of his presence as we play together.
The melody builds gradually, each note drawing out fragments of my past creative attempts and weaving them into something new.
While playing, I notice something fluttering beneath the piano bench.
My fingers falter on the keys as I reach down to grasp it, our duet fading into silence.
It's a weathered sheet of music, peeking out from underneath.
I pull it out carefully, and it feels delicate, almost translucent in the moonlight.
The paper is covered in handwritten musical notation that seems to shimmer and shift before my eyes.
Several measures are complete, but others trail off into blank spaces.
When I look up to ask the ghostly pianist about it, his expression has changed.
His ethereal hands no longer hover above the keys but rest motionless beside mine.