“—Sunflowers Gazing at the Sky—”
Haruka’s voice unfolded within the practice room.
Without the processing of a microphone or the reverb of a recording studio, only her clear voice and gentle accompaniment filled the air.
Meihe’s pen stopped.
She had been looking down, taking notes, but when Haruka hit the third line, her eyes lifted from the notebook and fixed on Haruka in the center of the room—pitch perfect, breath steady, not even a tremble at the tail of the long notes.
Her voice was bright and transparent.
Haruka entered the chorus.
“—Don’t give up, bloom to your fullest—”
This section had a subtle shift in dynamics, moving from the softness of the first verse into the explosive release of the chorus.
To pull it off, she had to accomplish two things in a single breath: gather power on the inhale, and let it all out on the exhale.
Haruka did it.
And she did it well.
But…
Meihe tilted her head and muttered to herself in a voice only she could hear.
‘This delivery… seems a bit different from what I remember.’
The way Haruka used to sing this song was a “straightforward” style: passionate, direct, full of power.
Like the song’s name, Sunflower, reaching straight and unhesitatingly toward the sun.
Meihe had heard that style many times, but today’s version had something extra.
“Hmm… it’s like there’s a little more… playfulness? Or a certain charm?”
Meihe continued taking notes while mentally comparing the two versions.
She noticed that on certain words, Haruka added a very light upward inflection at the end, almost like an ad-lib, but also reminiscent of her original style.
It reminded Meihe of how professional singers, when performing live, would sometimes add vocal runs or special inflections to engage the audience.
But clearly, Haruka’s treatment wasn’t deliberate—it was a subconscious tonal shift that she herself might not even be aware of, as if she were saying, “I’m singing this just for you,” carrying a hint of shared delight.
If Meihe hadn’t been the one guiding Haruka’s vocal and dance training for years, she might never have noticed such a tiny change.
“……”
Finally, she wrote a small line in her notebook and drew a tiny question mark after it.
The chorus ended, the accompaniment faded.
Meihe pressed the stop button.
Haruka stopped as well.
Two seconds of silence filled the practice room.
“Vocal part.”
Meihe closed her notebook.
“No problems.”
“Really?!”
“Pitch, breath, tone—all within normal range. Even a little better than your condition before the injury.”
“A little better?”
Meihe nodded, indicating she wasn’t just saying nice things.
“It really is a little better. Specifically, your singing style has changed. It’s become… hmm, more interesting.”
She paused to choose her words.
“Before, your first impression when singing was ‘I want to sing this song well.’ Now it’s become ‘I want you to hear this song.’ The difference is small, but I can hear it.”
Haruka was taken aback.
She hadn’t expected such a precise description of the change in her singing, and one that hit so close to the truth.
‘Oh no. Could it be that the lingering desire from my fan days—the wish that the idol would look at me while singing—accidentally bled into my voice?’
“Hehe, I guess I did a lot of thinking while I was in the hospital.”
She scratched the back of her head sheepishly, glossing over it vaguely.
“Like, about what singing really means.”
Meihe nodded without pressing further.
“Anyway, I’m not worried about the vocal side.”
She stood up and began packing her notebook and files.
“Your physical recovery is far better than expected. But there’s still a considerable gap between now and being able to return to dance performance. The main issues are coordination and core stability. Those require systematic rehabilitation training, and you can’t rush it.”
“So, Meihe-sensei, what do you recommend?”
“For your upcoming schedule, I suggest focusing on vocal-centered activities.”
Meihe’s tone shifted into “professional advice” mode.
“Voice recording, radio, interviews, vocal variety shows—those can proceed normally. But if we’re looking at public performances, for now it’s best to arrange shows that don’t require high-intensity dancing, like an acoustic live.”
“An acoustic live? Like an unplugged concert?”
“What, just because you haven’t been on stage for a month, you’ve forgotten what type of concert that is?”
“Ah… ahem, of course not. I was just thinking that it’s been a while since we did that kind of live.”
Haruka realized she’d almost made a basic mistake, but she managed to cover it by explaining.
In truth, she wasn’t wrong—the last time Hoshino Haruka held an acoustic live was two years ago.
As a longtime fan, she knew perfectly well what an acoustic live was.
In simple terms, it was a concert where you only sing, no dancing.
Usually accompanied by acoustic instruments like guitar or piano, held in small venues of a few hundred or even a few dozen people.
This format demanded exceptional vocal skill, because there was no dance or elaborate stage lighting to distract the audience.
You were close to the fans, and any flaw would be magnified endlessly.
But the physical demands were far lower than a normal live show.
So for her current situation, if she absolutely had to perform in front of the public, this type of event was practically a tailor-made comeback stage.
“Dance training starts next week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday, four times a week, one hour each. We’ll begin with basic conditioning and core training. No rush on choreography.”
Meihe handed Haruka a training plan.
“All MV shoots, live shows, and events requiring full choreography are postponed until your coordination is back above the passing line.”
“How long until I hit that line?”
“Depends on your recovery speed. Optimistically, one to two months. Conservatively, over three months.”
Haruka took the training plan and glanced at it.
It was densely packed with various training items—core muscle training, balance training, upper-lower limb coordination, rhythm training… Each item had its frequency, intensity, and notes.
She couldn’t help but complain internally.
‘Is this really an athlete’s rehabilitation manual or something?’
“Any questions?” Meihe asked.
Haruka shook her head.
“Thank you, Meihe-sensei.”
She bowed.
“I’ll practice hard.”
“Don’t overdo it.”
Meihe picked up her bag.
“Your body just went through an extreme ordeal. It saved your life. Don’t betray that trust.”
She walked toward the door, paused as she passed Haruka.
“One last thing. Your singing has improved. I wonder if the car accident knocked it into you.”
She said it with the faintest upward turn at the corner of her mouth—barely noticeable—then pushed the door open and left.
Only Haruka remained in the practice room.
“Better? Me?”
She stood in front of the mirror, pointing at herself with her index finger.
The mirror reflected back her own figure—practice clothes, ponytail, slightly sweating, a band-aid on her forehead.
“Phew… thank goodness I didn’t slip up.”
Meihe had attributed the dance issues to post-accident sequelae.
That made perfect sense.
After all, recovering from a life-threatening injury would naturally affect one’s dancing.
No one would ever suspect anything else.
As for singing, not only did she pass, but she was actually complimented.
Even though Meihe noticed some “changes,” she interpreted them as “positive growth” rather than “suspicious abnormality.”
Conclusion: focus on singing for now, take dance slow.
For her, this was—
“Perfect plan, absolute bliss!”
After all, she had confidence in her singing, and dance had been given a grace period.
She was in a great mood.
“Hehehe, just like the song says—right now, I’m a flawless ‘genius idol’ made perfect by a lie!”
She began wandering around the practice room, unconsciously humming a tune.
“…Kanpeki de usotsuki na kimi wa, (Perfect and lie-telling you are) Tensai-teki na aidoru-sama, (Genius-like idol-sama)”
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