This is the tale that surpasses even the moonbow.
I once believed such words belonged only in stories—fairy tales whispered between pages or dreamed up beneath the stars.
But now, here I am, married to the very person I once longed for from afar. Kanemoto Uguisu… no, Shin Uguisu, ever since she took my name. The girl who once existed only in my memories now shares every fleeting moment of my present.
The golden afternoon light spills gently through the windows of our quiet little café. Dust motes dance in the air like spirits of forgotten tales. I sit by the window with my laptop, the keys beneath my fingers still warm from the last sentence typed. My eyes drift—not to the screen—but to her.
Uguisu-san hums a soft tune as she wipes down the tables, her motions rhythmic and familiar. Her apron is dusted with flour from the pastries she baked earlier. The scent of coffee and butter lingers in the air. There's a serenity here. A warmth not just from the sun, but from the life we've carefully built together.
I pause. The cursor blinks expectantly on the screen.
What kind of story should I write now?
"Running out of ideas?" she teases from across the room, glancing over her shoulder.
"Hmm… not exactly." I lean back in my chair, tapping the end of my pen against my chin. "I was just wondering... should I continue that story I wrote back in high school?"
"The one about the girl at the lighthouse?" she asks, walking over with a knowing smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
I nod. "Yeah… Something about it still clings to me. Like it's unfinished. Calling me back."
"You should." Her voice is gentle. "I always thought it was a beautiful story. It felt like… the kind that stays with you long after you've read it."
The Girl at the Lighthouse. A story I began in my final year of high school. It followed a lonely girl who climbed to the top of a forgotten lighthouse, hoping to confess her feelings to someone no longer in this world. Someone who had drifted beyond her reach—perhaps even beyond the moon itself.
The heroine? She was inspired by the girl standing in front of me right now.
Uguisu-san.
But life, as it often does, carried me elsewhere before I could finish it. The manuscript gathered digital dust, forgotten in the depths of a hard drive. And yet, recently, the urge to return to it has been growing stronger—like a tide slowly pulling me back.
"Why not contact Hiro and Kousuke?" Uguisu-san says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You three used to brainstorm together all the time. Maybe that spark is still there."
I smile up at her. "That's… actually a great idea. Thanks, Uguisu-san."
With that, I unlock my phone and scroll to the group chat we haven't touched in months.
Himeya:
You guys busy right now?
Hiro:
Depends. I'm out walking the baby.
Kousuke:
Working on something rn!!!
Himeya:
Wanna come over? Maybe this afternoon?
Hiro:
Can I bring Yuka along?
Himeya:
Of course. The more, the merrier.
Kousuke:
I'll try to make it. Let me check my schedule
I set my phone down.
"Looks like Kousuke's still drowning in deadlines," I mutter, stretching.
"Well, he's working at that film production company now, isn't he?"
"Yeah… the guy never stops," I say, chuckling.
"So, what's his latest project?" Uguisu-san leans down from behind and wraps her arms gently around me, her chin resting on my shoulder.
"Probably another trendy light novel adaptation. He's really into that stuff now."
"You should ask him to adapt yours," she says with a teasing nudge. "It would make a beautiful movie."
"I don't want to bother him. He's got a lot going on already."
She stays quiet for a moment, then whispers, "He's your friend. I'm sure he'd be happy to help if you just asked."
She kisses my cheek and walks off, leaving the scent of vanilla and flour lingering in the air—and a mind filled with swirling thoughts.
I close my laptop and move to the living room. The café is quiet, save for the distant clink of cups in the kitchen. I sink into the sofa and stare at the ceiling, lost in the stillness.
"...So this is my life now, huh?" I whisper.
My gaze shifts to the shelf where our wedding photo rests in its frame. There we are—Uguisu-san and I, smiling in a sea of friends and family. Yet, even in that perfect moment, one person was missing.
Touka.
She never came to the wedding.
Ever since that day... I haven't seen her again. The events of that evening feel like a dream now, a surreal memory blurred by time and emotion. And whenever I try to reach for it, a sharp pain flashes through my head, and the memory slips away like mist through my fingers.
Maybe that's why I chose to forget.
That Afternoon
Hiro leans back in his chair, sipping on an iced coffee. "So, you're really thinking of picking up that old story again?"
"Yeah. Do you even remember it?"
He grins. "Of course. The heroine was basically Uguisu-senpai, right?"
I laugh quietly. "You caught that, huh?"
Moments later, Uguisu-san emerges from the kitchen with a tray of drinks. Her hair is tied back, and her apron still carries traces of baking flour.
"Here you go," she says, gently placing the cups on the table.
"It's been a while, Uguisu-senpai," Hiro greets her with a warm smile.
She chuckles. "It hasn't been that long, Hiro-kun."
"It's been three months."
"Hmm… time really flies," she murmurs, her eyes soft as they linger on the two of us.
We sip our drinks in silence, letting memories drift between us like old songs we've forgotten the lyrics to. Just as I begin to speak again, I feel a hand land firmly on my shoulder.
"Yo, it's been a while."
I turn and blink in surprise.
"Yuka."
She stands behind me with that same playful spark in her eyes.
"Hello. It really has been a long time," I say, standing to greet her. My eyes fall on the baby in her arms. "...And this little one?"
"His name's Komori," she says proudly.
I smile and crouch slightly. "Hello, Komori-kun. He's got your eyes, Hiro."
"Well, he is mine, haha," Hiro says with a proud laugh.
"Please, have a seat," I say, gesturing to the open chair.
"Thanks." She settles in beside her husband.
We begin chatting—about life, work, the baby, the past. It feels like slipping back into a rhythm that never really disappeared.
Then Yuka glances at me and grins. "So… you ended up with Kanemoto-senpai, huh?"
I nod sheepishly. "Yeah."
"I was curious who you married, you know. Back then, I thought for sure you were going to end up with Miyako-san."
...
Touka...
Hiro stiffens beside her. "Yuka."
Realization flickers across her face. Her eyes widen slightly. "Ah… sorry, Himeya. That was insensitive of me."
"It's alright…" I manage a small smile. "Anyway, how's work, Yuka?"
She exhales and looks down at Komori. "Well, as you can see… I've got my hands full with this one."
We all laugh. The mood eases. But in the silence that follows, the ghost of a name still lingers in the air.
The air settles again, the tension slowly fading like steam rising from a forgotten cup of tea.
Yuka rocks Komori gently in her arms, her expression a mix of guilt and quiet affection. Hiro gives her a small, understanding smile before turning toward me with that same old glint in his eyes.
"Anyway..." he says, stretching his arms behind his head, "...you were saying something about picking up that old story of yours again?"
I blink, caught off guard for a second by the sudden shift—but grateful for it.
"Yeah. 'The Girl at the Lighthouse.' I've been thinking about it a lot lately," I reply, rubbing the back of my neck. "It's strange. I haven't looked at it in years, but it's been on my mind almost every day now."
"Well, it was your baby before any of us even understood how to hold a pen properly," Hiro chuckles. "I remember how obsessed you were. You'd bring printouts to the Literature Club meetings and ask everyone to critique each line."
"And then ignore every suggestion," Yuka adds with a small laugh.
"Hey, I took some of them," I protest, chuckling as well. "Some."
"But it was good," Hiro says seriously now. "That story had something... special. It wasn't just about a girl confessing her love. It was about grief, waiting, and the fear of forgetting someone you once held dear."
His words catch me off guard. I hadn't realized he remembered that much.
"You always wrote with your heart on the page," he continues, this time with a softer tone. "Even back then."
I lower my gaze, feeling a heat rise to my cheeks. Not from embarrassment—more from the strange vulnerability that always came when someone saw through me too clearly.
"I guess that's why I never finished it," I say, fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of my coffee mug. "I didn't know how to give the girl an ending. I didn't know if she should let go... or keep waiting."
"...Still waiting for someone who may never come back?" Yuka asks quietly.
My hand pauses.
"...Maybe."
Silence again. But this time, it feels thoughtful. Gentle.
"Well," Hiro breaks it, leaning forward, "you've got a second chance now. You're not that high school boy anymore. You've lived, loved, and maybe even lost a little. That story… it could be something more now."
I glance at Uguisu-san, who stands behind the counter, wiping down a tray. Our eyes meet for a moment. She smiles, a quiet, supportive kind of smile that steadies me even when I feel like I'm drifting.
"...You're right," I say softly. "Maybe it's time I gave her an ending."
"You need help with the writing?" Hiro asks. "Or are you planning to lock yourself in your study again with black coffee and ambient rain sounds?"
I laugh. "Probably both. But actually... I was wondering if you'd help me with something else."
"Oh?"
"I want to adapt it," I say, the words coming out with a strange sense of finality. "Into book."
Yuka raises her eyebrows. "That's a pretty big step."
"I know. But I think… it might be time I told that story the way it was meant to be told. Not just as something personal—but something shared."
Hiro's eyes light up. "Now that I can help with."
"You sure? I mean, your schedule's—"
"I'll make time," he interrupts. "This feels important. For you. For all of us."
I feel something unspoken pass between us then. A thread that still binds us, even after all these years. Not just friends, not just creatives—we were once dreamers under the same roof, whispering stories to each other like they were sacred things.
Yuka smiles. "Then it's settled."
Uguisu-san walks over at just the right moment, holding a fresh cup of tea.
"Looks like the team is back together again," she says, placing the cup in front of me.
"Feels like it, doesn't it?" I murmur.
...
Evening fell softly, like a whisper across the sky.
The last of the golden light had faded, replaced by the dusky hues of violet and deep blue. The shop's "Closed" sign now hung in the window, swaying slightly as the evening breeze filtered through the half-cracked door.
Hiro and Yuka had left about half an hour ago, with little Komori peacefully asleep in Yuka's arms. We waved them off at the door, promising to meet again soon—though we all knew "soon" could mean anything in adult life.
Now, only silence remained. Familiar. Comfortable.
I stood behind the counter, collecting the last few cups, while Uguisu-san wiped the remaining tables with practiced grace.
"You forgot to turn off the back light again," she said gently, glancing over her shoulder with a small smirk.
"Ah, right," I replied, quickly ducking into the kitchen to flick the switch. The back of the café dimmed, leaving only the warm amber lights near the register.
She placed the last cloth on the sink and untied her apron, hanging it neatly by the wall. I did the same with mine. The day had ended.
"Come on," she said, taking my hand. "Let's sit down for a bit before heading upstairs."
We made our way to the living room behind the café, a cozy space we carved out for ourselves—wooden floorboards, a sofa, and a shelf filled with books, notebooks, and knickknacks that had followed us from our youth.
We sank into the couch together. The cushions gave way with a familiar creak, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. Only the distant sound of cicadas reminded us that summer hadn't left yet.
She leaned her head against my shoulder, eyes closed. "Tired?"
"Just a little," I said. "But… it's a good kind of tired."
"Mhm." Her voice was no more than a hum. "You seemed really inspired back there. Talking with Hiro and Yuka… I could see it in your eyes."
I gave a small chuckle. "Was it that obvious?"
"To me? Always."
A pause stretched between us, quiet but not empty.
"I've been thinking about that story again," I admitted, turning my head slightly to look at her. "The Girl at the Lighthouse. I think I finally understand what it was really about."
She looked up at me with a soft curiosity. "And what's that?"
"It wasn't just about waiting for someone who was gone," I said. "It was about… learning to keep living, even when you're not sure if that person will ever come back. About treasuring something, even when it hurts."
Uguisu-san didn't say anything right away. Her hand gently found mine, fingers lacing together with quiet warmth.
"You never told me what inspired the ending," she said, voice almost a whisper. "The one you never wrote."
"That's because I didn't know it yet," I murmured.
She tilted her head, puzzled. "And now?"
"Now... I think I do."
I looked out the window beside us. The moon was rising, pale and serene, casting a soft glow through the curtains.
"She doesn't climb the lighthouse just to wait," I continued. "She climbs it to say goodbye. She realizes she's been holding on to a memory that's been holding her back."
Uguisu-san's grip on my hand tightened slightly. "So, she let go?"
I smiled. "She let go—but not out of despair. She let go because she's found something new. Something that gives her hope again. A light that's no longer distant."
She didn't respond immediately. Instead, she leaned in, resting her head fully on my shoulder this time, her breath calm and steady.
"So... I'm that light?"
"You always have been," I whispered.
I smiled.
And then, without overthinking it, I leaned in.
Our lips met.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't overly dramatic. Just… honest. Warm. Familiar.
Her hand rested gently on my chest as she kissed me back. It felt like everything we had gone through—every moment, every misunderstanding, every quiet day in the café—was leading to this one small, perfect second.
When we finally pulled apart, she rested her forehead against mine.
"You really are hopeless when you get all sentimental," she whispered.
"I blame you," I replied.
She chuckled softly. "Then make sure you write it properly this time, Himeya-sensei. No more running away from endings."
I nodded, eyes growing heavy. "I will. I promise."