Later that evening, Yuki couldn’t stop thinking about the petal.

  It wasn’t just strange—it was impossible. The cherry tree was barren, its branches naked against the gray. Yet that single blossom had landed so softly, so perfectly, in Aoi’s lap. Like it had been given to her.

  He didn’t say anything on the way back. Neither did she. But there was something new in the air between them now. A kind of tension—not uncomfortable, but expectant.

  Back at the bookstore, they stepped inside and shook off the damp. The closed sign was still hanging on the door. The lights inside were soft, golden. Familiar.

  Yuki walked over to the poetry section. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  Aoi followed him, her expression curious.

  He pulled down an old, thin volume—Letters Never Sent, a collection of poems Shirou had self-published in his twenties. It had barely sold, but Shirou insisted on keeping a copy behind the counter like it was a first edition Hemingway.

  Yuki opened it to the middle and handed it to her.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Aoi took the book delicately. Her eyes scanned the page. Then her breath caught.

  “To the girl who stood in rain— Silent as the world bent to listen. If you return, bring nothing but your name, And I will remember how to say mine again.”

  Aoi closed the book slowly. “This is… this was written to her.”

  Yuki nodded. “I used to think these poems were made up. Like a novelist writing to a dream. But today…”

  “Today makes them feel real,” Aoi finished, softly.

  They stood close now, the air thick with something fragile.

  “Why did you bring me here?” she asked. Not accusing—just wondering.

  “I think…” He hesitated. “Because when you walked in, I saw someone holding the part of him he never let go of. And for some reason, it felt like I was supposed to be a part of that.”

  She looked at him then. Really looked. “You’re quiet,” she said. “But you’re not empty.”

  He chuckled, a little embarrassed. “You’re poetic.”

  “I read a lot of poetry,” she said, smiling. “Lately, mostly his.”

  A beat passed. Then another.

  Aoi glanced toward the window. “Do you ever wonder… if people can fall in love just by reading the same words?”

  Yuki’s heart skipped.

  “I think it’s one of the only ways they should,” he said.

  And in that moment, the rain stopped.