#nana56b
Synopsis
From the moment he took his first breath, Yuma’s
world was shrouded in deep darkness.
“This child will have to live his life without
ever knowing light.”
Hearing the doctor’s words, his mother, Satomi,
desperately braced her legs, which felt as if
they were about to give way. The reality of total
blindness, delivered shortly after his birth.
Satomi wept for many nights, thinking of her
child’s future—a future in which he would be
left alone in the darkness. However, it was Yuma
himself—who couldn’t even speak yet—who saved
her from that despair.
Around his first birthday, Yuma accidentally
brushed his finger against an old upright piano
sitting in the corner of the living room.
“Pong.”
The moment that single note rang out, Yuma’s
face lit up. As if he had found the light he was
supposed to be unable to see within that sound,
he struck the keys over and over again.
By the time he turned two, he was able to
accurately reproduce the melodies from TV
commercials after hearing them just once. Every
time his tiny fingers danced across the keys, the
house overflowed with color. Satomi was convinced:
this child could see a “landscape of sound” that
was invisible to the rest of us.
“Yuma, this is the sound of red. It’s a warm
sound, like the sun. This one is blue—it’s cold,
but it’s the color of beautiful water.”
Satomi taught him by comparing everything around
them to sounds. She worked day and night, doing
everything she could to ensure Yuma received the
best musical education possible. She had all the
sheet music transcribed into Braille and taught
him finger movements by placing her own hands
over his.
As if in response to that passion, Yuma’s talent
began to move those around him. A local piano
teacher went so far as to waive his monthly
tuition just to impart his teachings to Yuma, and
an elderly piano tuner—declaring, “No other
child produces such a pure sound”—continued to
tune his piano free of charge.
However, as he grew older, the high barrier of
“not being able to see” loomed before Yuma.
When he competed in contests, he was sometimes
subjected to thoughtless backbiting, with people
saying, “He’s only getting sympathy because he
has a disability.” There were nights when,
unable to understand the structure of the sheet
music during practice, he would freeze in front
of the piano.
“Mom, I don’t understand light. I’ll never
know what true red or true blue looks like—not
in my whole life.”
Toward the end of his teens, when Yuma was on
the verge of giving up, Satomi spoke to him
quietly.
“Yuma, in your music, I see landscapes more
vivid than anyone else can. You aren’t blind.
You see the whole world with your heart. Have
confidence. Your music can light up the hearts
of people all over the world.”
And then, at the age of twenty, Yuma was
standing on the stage of the world’s …
