Euphony Trio: Encore

The sun was barely peeking through the curtains when Sunny was already dressed and pacing quietly through the apartment. She was in one of her "low-key panic" moods — fussing with her outfit, double-checking the time, nibbling at a barely touched piece of toast. Her bag was packed with care: tissues, mints, a tiny notebook of questions… and nothing that hinted at Amber.

She tiptoed over to the couch where Amber was curled up under a fluffy blanket, only her messy black hair visible over the edge. Sunny knelt beside her and gave the corner of the blanket a gentle tug.

"Come on," she whispered. "I thought you wanted this."

Amber groaned, her voice muffled and half-asleep. "Yes, yes… give me a minute, Sunbeam…"

Sunny blinked, then smirked faintly. "…You're really running with that nickname, huh?"

Amber finally peeked out, her eyes still hazy but laced with amusement. "It suits you. All soft and blinding in the morning."

She slowly sat up, stretching with a dramatic yawn. Her new pajamas — a loose cotton tee and plaid shorts — were a recent purchase from a spontaneous late-night outing. Sunny had dragged her, Amelia, and Nico out after a bubble tea run, convincing Amber that oversized pastel lounge clothes were a rite of passage.

---

Amelia throwing sleepwear options at Amber in a blur of enthusiasm.Nico pretending to rate each outfit with Olympic-level seriousness.Sunny sneaking a matching top into the basket when Amber wasn't looking.

It had been fun. Almost… sibling-like.

---

Sunny stood at the front door, coat on, messenger bag slung across her shoulder. She glanced at her phone. Then the clock. Then the door again. The nerves were obvious — tucked behind tidy hair and a pale pink scarf she kept adjusting for no reason.

Behind her, the door creaked open. Amber emerged with a lazy stretch, bomber jacket slung on, her hair a tangled mess of sleep.

"You ready?" Sunny asked without turning.

Amber yawned. "Are you?"

"…Barely."

They stepped outside. Parked under the awning — same as always — was Amber's beat-up silver motorcycle, with its mismatched handle grips and the familiar faded sticker that read 'Don't Touch, I Bite'.

Sunny gave it a quick glance. "We're taking the bike again?"

Amber smirked. "Unless you've suddenly developed a thing for cardio."

Sunny didn't bother responding. She was already adjusting her scarf tighter, stepping toward the bike.

They'd taken it a few times this past month — to the market, to late-night cafés, once to a rooftop concert Amber insisted they crash. Sunny had grown used to the way it roared beneath them, how Amber always signaled turns with one hand like some overconfident movie character.

Amber handed her the helmet without comment. Sunny took it automatically.

"You sure you're okay?" Amber asked, quieter now.

Sunny nodded. "Just nervous."

Amber started the engine with a growl. "They'll love me."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Sunny muttered, climbing on behind her and settling in like she'd done before — arms wrapped snug around Amber's waist, chin tucked just behind her shoulder.

Amber smirked at the road ahead. "Let's go introduce me, then."

And with that, they pulled off down the street — the morning wind catching Sunny's scarf, the city stretching wide and uncertain before them.

---

The villa stood exactly as Sunny remembered it: white stucco walls softened by climbing ivy, a wide veranda lined with potted geraniums, and the sweet scent of lavender wafting from the garden. The neighborhood was peaceful — the kind of place where the mailman waved, dogs barked politely, and everyone knew everyone by name. A quiet suburb tucked just far enough from the city to feel like a dream.

Amber slowed the bike to a low purr as they turned up the familiar gravel path. Sunny slid off before it had even fully stopped, already adjusting her coat and smoothing out the tension in her expression. She looked up at the house — tall windows, a tiled roof, and a red front door that still had the same wreath her mom stubbornly kept up year-round. Her stomach flipped.

The front door opened before they even rang the bell.

"Sunny!" her mom called out, her voice rising with emotion.

Elma Sakamoto was elegant as always — long dark blonde hair pinned loosely back, pearl earrings, a soft knit cardigan over a floral dress. Her smile faltered only for a second before she stepped forward and wrapped her daughter in a tight hug, holding on for longer than expected.

"It's been a year," Elma whispered, voice cracking just a bit.

"Not quite, Mom," Sunny said softly. "I came home for Easter, remember?"

Elma pulled back with a watery smile. "Feels longer."

Then Adam appeared behind her — tall, gentle-eyed, sleeves rolled up like he'd been helping in the kitchen. He rested a hand on Sunny's shoulder, firm and steady. "You look good, Sunbeam," he said, voice warm.

Sunny smiled. But then—

The motorcycle engine cut off behind them. Both Elma and Adam turned as Amber stepped forward, pulling off her helmet and ruffling her already-messy hair.

And that's when Adam froze.

His eyes locked on her face — her jawline, the tilt of her nose, the unmistakable sharpness in her brow. The same features he saw in the mirror every morning. The same features he had passed on to Sunny.

Amber looked up at him, neutral but curious, and offered a short nod. "Hey."

Elma blinked, her smile confused but polite. "And who's this?"

Sunny hesitated. "Um… this is Amber."

Amber stepped up beside her, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket.

"She's…" Sunny looked at her mom, then back to her dad. "She's… my half-sister."

Silence fell like a pin drop on marble.

Elma blinked again. "Half…?"

Adam didn't speak. He was staring at Amber like a ghost had walked up to the front steps.

Sunny noticed.

"She came to find me," she said quickly. "We didn't plan this. I only just met her a month ago. But… I invited her. I wanted you to meet her."

Elma turned to her husband. "Adam…?"

He was quiet. Too quiet.

Amber folded her arms. "You remember my mom, right?" she said — cool, but not unkind. "Nora?"

The name hit like a dropped plate. Adam went stiff. Elma's expression faltered, confusion giving way to a dawning realization.

Amber kept her voice even. "I'm her daughter. Which… kinda makes you my father."

Silence.

Sunny took a slow breath and stepped forward, her voice steady but gentle. "I didn't bring her here to start anything. I just thought… if she's really my sister, then you deserve to know. And she deserves to be heard."

Amber glanced sideways, a little surprised at Sunny's wording — soft, but honest.

"She's not here to ruin anything," Sunny added quietly. "She just… wanted to meet you."

Adam's gaze hadn't left Amber. There were decades of unspoken things in his eyes. Regret. Confusion. Maybe even guilt.

Amber didn't flinch. "I'm not expecting anything," she said. "I'm not here to blow up your life. I just figured… it's better than spending forever wondering."

A long pause.

Then — quietly — Elma reached for the door and stepped aside. "Come in."

Amber hesitated.

Sunny touched her arm gently. "It's okay."

And together, they stepped into the house.

Adam still hadn't moved.

---

Amber stepped inside, eyes scanning the space slowly.

It was like stepping into a home magazine. Not in a sterile way — no — it felt lived-in, warm. Sunlight spilled in through wide windows. Pale wooden floors, soft-colored walls, neat furniture arranged with an effortless elegance that made it all feel… curated. Inviting. There were potted plants on side tables, framed photos of Sunny as a child, a shelf full of cookbooks and travel mugs above a polished kitchen counter.

Amber blinked. "Wow," she muttered under her breath. "This place is fancy."

Sunny gave her a small smile. "I guess I stopped noticing after a while."

Elma was already moving about the kitchen with quiet grace, adding finishing touches to a tray: cups, saucers, a small plate of delicate pastries. The back door was propped open, letting in the warm breeze of midsummer.

"The weather's perfect," she said as she turned to the girls. "So I thought we could sit outside."

Amber followed as Sunny led her out onto the veranda — a wide wooden deck overlooking a neatly trimmed garden. The table was set already, with cushions on the chairs and a little vase of wildflowers at the center. It was the kind of place that begged you to sit down and stay for a while.

Elma set the tray down and gestured to the chairs. "Please — make yourselves comfortable. Tea for you, Sunny," she said with a smile. "I wasn't sure if you still preferred it over coffee, but I remember you used to say coffee made your stomach do flips."

Sunny nodded, grateful. "Still true."

Elma turned to Amber. "And for you, dear? Water? Coffee?"

Amber glanced up, a little surprised by the offer. "Coffee's fine."

"Any additions? Sugar, milk, oat, soy…?"

Amber shrugged, folding her arms loosely. "Black's fine."

Elma gave a soft nod, pouring her a cup with practiced hands. Amber accepted it, watching steam curl off the surface. It felt… surreal. Like being dropped into someone else's memory.

Adam stood quietly by the sliding glass door, saying nothing.

It wasn't awkward exactly — more like suspended. Like everyone was waiting to see who would make the next move.

---

The clink of a teacup. A soft breeze rustling the trees. For a long time, that was all they heard.

Amber sat stiffly, legs crossed, her cup cradled in both hands. Sunny was beside her, back straight, fingers twisting the end of her scarf. Elma had stepped inside momentarily to fetch a dishcloth — and in her absence, the quiet had changed.

Adam still hadn't said a word. He sat at the head of the table, posture formal, shoulders tense.

Sunny glanced over. Then, gently:"Dad… can I ask you something?"

Adam looked up, eyes flicking from her to Amber. He gave the smallest nod.

She swallowed. "Could you tell us… what happened back then?"

A pause.

Amber didn't speak — but the air around her sharpened.

Adam stared at his hands for a moment. Then exhaled slowly, as if dusting off something long buried.

"…It wasn't just one thing," he said, voice low. "I wasn't ready. I thought I was — but I wasn't."

He looked at Amber now. Really looked. There was no denial in his face. Just something raw. Regretful.

"Your mother… Nora, she was already struggling. Even before you were born. Her pregnancy was hard on her — emotionally, especially. She got quiet. Sad. I didn't know how to help her. And instead of trying harder… I just shut down."

Amber's eyes flickered. But she stayed still.

"She needed someone steady," Adam continued. "But I wasn't that person. I was twenty-three. I kept leaving town for work. I'd come back, but not fully. I didn't… want to see how bad it had gotten."

He looked down, shame creasing his expression.

"When you were born, you cried all the time. Hours, sometimes. Colic, they called it. But it was more than that. You couldn't keep food down. You had trouble sleeping. Nora was exhausted. And I…"

His voice cracked slightly.

"I started spending more time out of the house. Telling myself I needed space. That I was just tired too. But the truth is, I was scared. I didn't know how to be a father. Not like that."

Sunny was still watching him, but her gaze had softened.

"I should've stayed," he said. "I should've tried. But I didn't. I kept running. And when I met Elma… she was kind to me. She made things feel… simple again."

Amber's grip tightened around her cup — but she didn't interrupt.

"I didn't leave because I stopped caring," Adam said quietly. "I left because I was too weak to face what caring required of me."

Silence again. This time heavier, more honest.

Amber finally spoke. "And you just… never looked back?"

Adam met her eyes. "I did. But by then, your mom had shut me out completely. She didn't want contact. I respected that. Or maybe I used it as an excuse."

He leaned back slightly, his voice gentler now.

"I know nothing I say can change how that felt growing up. But… I never stopped wondering about you. I just didn't know if I had the right to come back."

Amber blinked. Once. Twice.

Then looked away.

Sunny reached for her hand under the table — and this time, Amber didn't pull away.

---

The back door creaked open, and Elma returned balancing a tray of small cookies and a fresh teapot. Her eyes were warm — but they froze as she sensed the tension in the air.

"Everything okay?" she asked softly, setting the tray down.

No one answered.

Amber's chair scraped against the wooden floor as she stood up — abruptly.

She didn't look at anyone. Just said, flatly:"I need air."

And then she was gone — boots thudding down the veranda steps, disappearing into the side garden.

Sunny shot up next, nearly knocking her chair over. "Amber—!"

But Amber didn't slow down.

Elma blinked, clearly confused, then glanced at Adam. He didn't speak — only stared down at his lap again, as if bracing for something that never arrived when it should have.

Sunny gave her mom a small, apologetic look before rushing after Amber.

---

The sun was lower now — warm orange bleeding through the hedges. Amber stood just beyond the fence line, arms crossed, staring off into the row of houses down the street. Her jaw was tense. Her whole posture was electric.

"Amber," Sunny called gently.

Nothing.

She approached slowly, the gravel crunching beneath her boots.

"You okay?"

That did it.

Amber turned sharply. Her eyes weren't teary — they were blazing.

"No. I'm not okay," she snapped. "I came here to try and understand — to maybe make peace with something I've been carrying around my whole damn life. And all he did was prove what I already knew."

Sunny stayed quiet, letting her speak.

"He didn't fight for us. He didn't try. He left when things got hard and replaced us. Then had the nerve to say he thought about coming back but just didn't. What kind of father does that?"

Sunny's heart ached, but still she said carefully, "People mess up. He wasn't ready, and—"

"That doesn't make it okay!" Amber snapped. "You don't get to walk out of a life you helped create just because it's messy. You don't get to disappear and then sit there, sipping tea, like it's a damn history lesson."

She turned away again, pacing. "And the worst part is — he gets to have you. He gets this perfect little family, this sweet little house, and a daughter who still calls him Dad."

Sunny flinched — but not out of guilt. Just… truth.

Amber sighed, quieter now.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "That wasn't fair."

Sunny stepped beside her.

"No… it's okay," she said, voice soft. "You're allowed to feel all of that. I would too."

Amber glanced at her. "I don't hate you, you know."

"I know."

"I don't even hate him. I just…"

She kicked a stray stone near her boot.

"I just wish things had been different."

Sunny nodded, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Yeah. Me too."

---

The sun had dipped lower, casting long, soft shadows across the floorboards. The tea on the table had gone untouched. Elma sat quietly on the edge of the sofa, hands folded tightly in her lap. Across the room, Adam stood near the window, unmoving — as if rooted in place, watching the light fade through the curtains.

When the front door opened, both heads turned.

Amber stepped in.

Her boots thudded gently against the floor. She looked calm. Composed. But her eyes — her eyes were iron.

She stopped in front of Adam and met his gaze. Her voice was steady, deliberate.

"You're clearly not a terrible father," she began. "Sunny is proof of that."

Adam's breath caught.

Amber didn't blink.

"But the fact that you abandoned us is unforgivable. You left my mom when she needed you most. You left me before I even had a chance to know you. And I don't care what your reasons were. You chose to walk away."

Elma's hand moved slightly toward Adam's, but he didn't react.

Amber continued, softer — but no less resolute.

"I don't hate you. I don't wish you pain. You have a wonderful life. A kind wife. And an even more wonderful daughter. Hold on to them."

A pause.

"But this will be the last time we see each other. Just like you wanted, back then."

Adam opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Amber's eyes flicked down, then back up again — final, firm.

"And I will never call you my real father."

Silence.

Then she turned and walked out.

---

Sunny stood just beyond the porch, waiting. Amber joined her without a word, hands tucked into her jacket pockets. She didn't cry. She didn't tremble. But her silence said everything.

Sunny stepped beside her, quietly.

"You ready to go?" she asked.

Amber nodded once. "Yeah."

And without looking back, they walked down the path together — two sisters bound not by past, but by choice.Amber swung a leg over her bike and glanced back at Sunny. "You coming?"

Sunny nodded and climbed on behind her, arms wrapping around her waist like second nature.The engine rumbled to life, low and steady.And together, they rode off — into the fading sun.