Morning came in gold and lavender, soft light dripping through the window like honey. Yuki awoke to the smell of toasted bread and peaches. The cottage was quiet, except for the sound of cicadas and the gentle hum of a fan.
Ami sat at the table, feet up on a chair, humming as she scribbled something in her notebook.
"You always wake up so seriously," she teased when she saw him. "Like the world's ending."
Yuki rubbed his eyes. "Feels like it already did."
Ami tilted her head. "Funny. I thought it just began."
---
They spent the day walking through places that felt stitched together from forgotten postcards. A rusted vending machine that only gave peach soda. A photo booth with film that came out blank. A tree with someone's name carved halfway, as if they stopped before finishing.
Yuki started to notice the patterns.
People appeared only when they were needed. The old woman who ran the tea shop only spoke when Ami asked about plum candy. A child on a bike circled them once, waved, and was gone the next second. Even the birds in the trees repeated the same tune, like a memory looping.
"Is this place really alive?" he asked.
Ami shrugged. "It's alive enough for us."
They walked until they found the shrine—a tiny place at the edge of a forgotten path, its wood worn, its bell rusted. She lit an incense stick and pressed her hands together.
"What did you wish for?" he asked after she bowed.
She didn't look at him.
"I wished I didn't have to wish."
---
That night, they sat on the rooftop of the cottage, watching the stars.
Yuki broke the silence. "Do you ever feel like this isn't… permanent?"
Ami looked up. "Nothing ever is."
"But this place," he continued, "it feels like a memory that doesn't belong to me."
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"That's because it belongs to both of us."
---
As the night deepened, she opened the notebook.
She quietly checked off two more:
4. Dance with someone, no music.
(She had twirled with him earlier under a wind chime that never rang.)
6. Make a wish at the old shrine.
She handed him the pencil. "Here. Your turn."
Yuki hesitated, then placed a mark beside:
10. Kiss someone who feels like home.
Ami looked at the page, then at him.
Slowly, she leaned in.
The kiss wasn't fiery or rushed. It was soft, like a song you hum when you're too tired to sing. Like the moment before waking up—when the dream still clings to you.
When they pulled away, she whispered, "Now you'll never forget me."
Yuki didn't answer.
Because deep down… he was afraid she was right.