During lunch break at work, I saw a LINE message on my phone and froze.
“Shota… only has six months left to live.”
The message was from Ryosuke, the former guitarist of Silent Echo. Back in high school, we were all obsessed with our band. We played on stage at the school festival and held a solo live at a small venue just before graduation. That was our last live show.
After entering university, life pulled us in different directions, and the band naturally dissolved. I’d heard that Shota had continued on the path of music, but we hadn’t kept in touch.
Ryosuke’s message continued:
“Shota says he wants to do one last live with us.”
That night, Ryosuke, our bassist Takumi, keyboardist Nana, and I gathered at an izakaya. Shota couldn’t come—he was hospitalized. It had been five years since we last saw each other. Our reunion began with an awkward toast.
“Can Shota really perform?” Takumi asked.
“The doctors say it’s impossible. But he still wants to do it,” Ryosuke said, finishing his beer. “Even if we play and Shota just sings, that’s enough. Let’s do it—our final live.”
Silence fell over us. We all had jobs. Lives. But even so—
“Let’s do it,” I said. “At least once, we should grant Shota’s wish.”
Nana smiled. Takumi nodded. “I’ll book the studio,” Ryosuke said, taking initiative. And just like that, we decided to be a band again.
In the weeks that followed, we squeezed in rehearsals between work shifts. Our fingers didn’t move like they used to. The gap was real. But still, playing together again felt amazing.
Shota came to watch us a few times. “You guys still got it,” he said with a thin smile. His illness had taken his strength, and his voice had weakened—but the way he sang hadn’t changed.
The live show was held at a small venue near the hospital where Shota was receiving treatment—the same place we once stood on stage. We rented it out for him and invited old classmates and family.
On the day of the show, Shota arrived in a wheelchair but stood at the center of the stage.
“It’s been a while. This is the final live of Silent Echo!”
We started playing. My hands trembled, but the moment the sounds came together, I felt like we were back in high school. Shota’s voice was faint but unmistakably real.
Our final song was Our Echo, the last track we ever wrote together. Shota’s voice blended perfectly with our music.
As the performance ended, tears spilled down my cheeks. All of us—including Shota and the audience—were crying. But they weren’t tears of sadness.
A few days after the show, Shota passed away.
But his voice still lingers inside us.
The sound of that live still echoes in my heart.
Silent Echo—its final note hasn’t faded away.
