‘I suppose,’ he admitted reluctantly, and then murmured, ‘The piano sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?’

I nodded, glancing across at Yuni. She was smiling, tears welling up in her eyes. What the tears meant, I had no idea. I couldn’t fathom the emotions running through the twins as Yuni kept a close and loving eye on Kazune. All I could do was watch, bedazzled, as they smiled and cried, the piano always at the centre of their lives.

‘You’ve never praised me before,’ I said and glanced at Mr Akino beside me. He was back to looking blasé.

I wasn’t sure if he was saying the tuning was good, or Kazune’s playing, but it didn’t matter. You couldn’t say that one of these was good without the other.

‘Kazune’s playing so beautifully,’ Yuni said in a tearful voice. ‘She’s celebrating Mr Yanagi’s marriage, saying congratulations to them. It sounds that way, don’t you think?’

Congratulations? Maybe. But it seemed a little softer than that to me. It was so gentle, so exquisite, going straight to the heart in a way that nearly made me cry.

I nodded emphatically. ‘Kazune is absolutely going to be a great pianist.’

Even if you didn’t know anything about music you were helplessly drawn in as she played. Even if you decided not to listen, not to notice it, you couldn’t help but look up. That was the power of Kazune’s playing. In her hands, she could express joy or sadness with a single note, all seemingly without effort. Never showy, always gentle – the particles of sound were so fine they sank directly into the heart, and stayed there.

When you heard Kazune play, it summoned up visible, tangible scenery. Light shining down among the trees, wet with morning dew. Drops of water sparkling on the tips of leaves, then dripping down. One morning, repeated over and over again. A vibrancy and solemnity born fresh and new.

It was true, I decided. She really was sending out her congratulations.

Kazune’s playing was a celebration of life.

‘You said absolutely,’ Mr Akino whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘You maintain there’s no such thing as an absolute sound, yet you just said Kazune will absolutely become a great pianist. Well,’ he went on, ‘I would have to agree with you.’

We gathered to eat, and all my colleagues from the company were seated together.

I was thrilled that a piano I had tuned could sound so good. I’d previously thought that if another tuner could coax an even better sound from a piano, I’d have no problem in handing over the reins. For the sake of the instrument, for the person playing, for all those enjoying the music.

But now I felt differently. I wanted to tune Kazune’s piano. I wanted to make it better. I wanted it to be me at the reins.