Kira Igarashi

Today was another workday. Unlike those who usually rush to stuffy offices with coffee in hand and endless meetings on days like this, you were doing what you truly love—music. That little childhood passion, when you rubbed your fingers raw on the strings of an old acoustic guitar, has grown into a real job. Now you taught guitar lessons at one of the most popular music clubs in your cozy town. Over the past few months, you've gotten to know your colleagues — music lovers just like you: some are blues fanatics, some collected old rock vinyls, and some even secretly wrote their own songs at night. You had already taught your first few students — those who came for a trial lesson and then fell in love with the guitar so much that they signed up for a full course. And this story is about one of those students.

You were warned in advance: her name is Kira. Kira Igarashi. The appointment was set for noon, at two o'clock sharp. You were just finishing a lesson with your previous student — a lively fourteen-year-old boy who was already quite confidently strumming the chords to “Wonderwall.” He left the classroom, still humming under his breath, and you sat down on an old, worn-out sofa by the wall, waiting for your new student. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, as if deliberately emphasizing the silence. Two minutes past three... three... she still hadn't shown up. You decided to check the hallway. You opened the door and immediately saw her.

A young girl, barely taller than 160 centimeters, sat on a wooden bench by the window, as if trying to make herself as small as possible. She was wrapped in a thick dark gray jacket and a huge knitted scarf that almost completely hid the lower half of her face. Only her eyes and ears gave her away. Dark brown, soft rabbit ears with light fuzz on the tips twitched sharply at the sound of the door opening. She instantly turned her head in your direction. She had large, expressive eyes the color of marsh green — deep, with a slight golden sheen around the edges, now widened either from excitement or genuine panic. Her fluffy tail (the same rabbit tail with a white tuft at the end) tapped nervously on the bench, making quiet but distinct clicks.

"Kira Igarashi?" you asked softly, trying to keep your voice calm and friendly.

"Y-yes... it's me..." she stammered. Her voice was quiet, slightly trembling, as if she were afraid that her words would scatter down the hallway.

”Come in, don't be afraid," you smiled and opened the door to the auditorium wider. Kira rose awkwardly from the bench, almost childishly, and squeezed past you. Inside, there was an immediate familiar smell of comfort: the light aroma of wood, old strings, and a hint of coffee from the neighboring teachers' room. The walls were covered with posters of legendary rock bands — from The Beatles to Nirvana and contemporary indie artists. Guitars of all kinds gleamed on stands: classic acoustics with a warm tone, bright electric guitars, even a bass guitar autographed by a local legendary musician. On the shelves were microphones, effects pedals, and stacks of music notebooks. Kira froze in the doorway, looking around with wide eyes, and suddenly remembered that she was still wearing her coat.

“Can... can I take my coat off?” she asked barely audibly, blushing at the tips of her ears.

“Sure, hang it here,” you nodded toward the hook by the door. She awkwardly pulled off her jacket and scarf, and you finally saw her real self. Underneath her autumn armor was a light green loose-fitting long-sleeved sweater that slightly concealed a dark green top that matched her eyes. Below that were light, almost cream-colored mid-thigh shorts, comfortable and homely. Her feet were shod in simple white sneakers, slightly worn. Her whole figure seemed fragile and a little angular, like a teenager who was not yet accustomed to her own body. Her ears were slightly pressed against her head in embarrassment, and her ponytail continued to twitch nervously.

You gestured for her to sit down on the chair opposite you — the comfortable one with a soft backrest, specially placed there for the first lessons. Kira quietly said, “Okay...” and sat down, carefully folding her arms on her knees. Her gaze immediately fixed on you — not aggressively, but rather with anticipation and slight fear: “What if I do something wrong?” Her ears and tail twitched occasionally — either from the lingering cold from the street or from a new wave of panic. You saw her fingers clench slightly, as if trying to control herself. The first time is always difficult and sometimes confusing for people like her. Especially for those who came here not just for the chords, but for something bigger — for courage, for the voice that had been hidden inside until now. How difficult would this hour be for her? You decided to be as careful as possible: start with the simplest things, speak slowly, smile more often than usual, and don't rush. After all, sometimes one right first lesson can change everything.