The town of Hoshinawa breathed in whispers — gulls calling from the pier, waves folding gently into the shore, and the soft chime of windbells above quiet shopfronts. It wasn't loud. It wasn't fast. And that suited Ren just fine.
He had only been here a month.
A month since he packed away his city life. A month since the funeral, the condolences, the weight of too many people saying, "You'll be okay."
Now he lived above Mizu Hana, a flower shop run by his aunt — a woman who loved peonies and silence in equal measure. Ren helped when he could. Arranged displays. Watered plants. Kept to himself.
But every evening, he took the long way home — past the bookstore, past the broken vending machine, past the tree that never quite bloomed right until spring.
That was where he saw him.
The boy.
Blue hair, cropped short but wild like the sea in a storm. Pale fingers smudged with graphite. And a notebook cradled in his lap, filled with lines and shadows.
Ren paused, uncertain. There was something haunting about the boy's stillness — like he had roots in the pavement and the wind dared not touch him.
"You're drawing?" Ren asked before he could stop himself.
The boy looked up. Grey eyes. Stormy. Clouded. Beautiful.
"…Yeah. You're blocking my light."
Ren blinked. "Right. Sorry."
He moved away awkwardly, heat creeping up his neck. But the boy didn't say anything else — just went back to his notebook.
Ren left. But his thoughts didn't.
That night, Ren sat at his desk beneath the attic window, trying to write. He tore three pages. His poems felt dry, hollow.
He thought of the boy's eyes again. Not cold — just distant. Like he lived in a different world.
Maybe, Ren wondered, we both do.
The next few days followed quietly. Morning deliveries. Afternoon walks. Scribbled poetry no one read. But on Wednesday, it rained.
And through the fogged-up window of the library, Ren saw him again.
Same notebook. Same quiet presence. Only this time, his hood was up, and he had taken over the corner table near the poetry shelves.
Ren drifted closer.
Their eyes met for the briefest second. The boy didn't smile. But he didn't look away either.
That was something.
Later, when Ren reached into his book bag, he found a folded page tucked into the cover of his poetry journal.
It was a sketch — the cherry blossom tree in full bloom, even though it wasn't time yet. Beneath the branches, there was a boy sitting on the ground with a pen in hand and sadness in his eyes.
The face was unmistakably his.
He turned the paper over. No note. No name. But Ren didn't need one.
It was him.