School festival season is coming, and Sakura Izumi can’t forget it this year. She’s a second-year student, more at home in the music room than onstage. Last year’s talent show went badly for her. Playing piano alone in front of everyone, fingers trembling, the notes meshed. Since then, she’s kept to small spaces.
Hajime, her childhood friend, shakes her desk onto the floor at break one morning by dropping a festival flyer across her notebook.
“You’re signing up for the band show, right? If you don’t, I’ll perform solo—on kazoo.”
She laughs. She hides her worry. Their club—Pretty Tune—just secured a slot at midnight, the last lineup, which means a real crowd. Yet when she looks at Hana Morita, backup singer, or Shun, the moody, spiky-haired drummer who forgot his sticks last time, she feels like maybe it will work out.
Trouble slips in when Moka Iwabe, class idol, mocks their sleepwalking slot. “Nobody comes out that late. Why bother? The Takamine Sound are the headliners. Everyone’ll be at their tent.” Sakura wants to ignore her, but it stings.
The next day, she sits in the music room, picks out a tune, and asks: “Who’s gonna show up that late for us? Should we try something big?” Hajime nods. Shun shrugs. Hana sighs. Nobody really knows. You ever have that feeling that nothing’s gonna change until you push a little?
Practice rounds float into late November dusk. Sakura picks out soft, strange, dreamy themes. The club disagrees, argues, lands on covers of festival favorites. The piano keys feel cold some evenings. Yet one thing sparks: they write up secret flyers promising “one unique song—only at midnight!” Disguised as other clubs, they post them around school. Who’ll actually find them?
One evening, Sakura passes Moka in the hall.
“Hear you’re trying to make the festival weird this year,” Moka says, grinning.
“Rather be weird than boring,” Sakura shoots back.
The drizzle clings at festival setup. Sakura sneaks into the gym at 3am to leave a hand-written note for the stage crew: “Thank you for the midnight shift.” Nobody sees her, she thinks.
The day before the show, Shun vanishes. Hajime finds him on the sports field, moody, picking at the grass.
“Last time I dragged everyone’s sound down,” he mumbles.
“So practice later,” Hajime replies. “Play loose. I’ll sneak in snacks.”
Sometimes you need just a vote of faith.
Festival morning shudders with thermos coffee, rainbow stalls, and clang of voices. Sakura scours TikTok for buzz, searching their flyer’s scannable code. Three clicks. Enough? “People might come,” Hana tells her, eyes behind pastel glasses. “Worst happens, we play for each other.” 
The midnight tick slides closer. Hana fixes her sparkle hairpin. Shun, bright drums by his side, tests a stick’s bounce. Sakura may not have a crowd, but this time, she steps up front, voice thin then climbing. The first notes hit. There’s a small shaded crowd up from the shadows. Some faces familiar—some not.
Suddenly, the fire alarm goes off. It blares across campus, cutting the stage power. In pitch dark, Hajime shouts: “Keep playing—acoustic or nothing!”
Sakura’s piano is silent, keys dead. She stands, takes the mic, and begins to sing. Their midnight song never sounded like this. No chords, just soft voice, feet tapping time. The crowd is silent, yet they are here for it.
A phone’s flashlight catches Sakura’s eyes. The audience crossties their phones, pooling the light. Hana drops her harmonies in; Shun strikes the sides of a trash can for snare, improvising. Something happens in the dark that never would’ve in the light. People film, others come running from distant tents. The doors open behind the gym stage. Are you hearing? More people are waking up. 
The headliner—Moka’s band—shows up next. Do they steal the unexpected crowd? They set up gear in the shadows, silent. Tension slides between both bands. The staff asks if the last hour can save this festival or if it’s too late.
Will Sakura’s group play their encore, now that the generator might come back on—or does the rival try to boot them from the stage first?
On the final page, the lights snap but don’t hold. It’s twenty past twelve. Both bands stare across the hush. Sakura holds the song in her hands.
Who’s gonna make the move?
