The riverbank was quiet in the early morning.
The young man — unaware of the millennia of sorrow and divine battles that had shaped him — traced his fingers along the faint sigil on his palm. The glow pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, though no one else could see it.
The girl beneath the cherry tree stirred. Her hair caught the sunlight, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of violet in her eyes — a reflection of something ancient, something that had lived through wars, grief, and divine wrath.
> "Do you feel it?" she asked softly.
> "Feel what?" he replied.
> "The wind… the petals. They remember more than we do."
The young man tilted his head. A gentle gust rustled the blossoms. For a heartbeat, he saw visions — fragments of a past life: a shattered temple, falling petals, a woman laughing and crying at the same time.
> "I… I think I do," he whispered.
She smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Then perhaps it's time we learn together… what was left unfinished."
From the edge of the forest, shadows stirred. Not hostile, but curious. Echoes of old magic, remnants of the gods who had once tried to erase her, now sensing the rebirth of the cycle.
> "You're not alone in this," the young man said.
> "Nor are you," she replied. "The world has changed, but some things… never truly end."
The petals drifted down around them, pink and white, glimmering like whispers of memory. The sigil on his palm flared once more, and he felt a warmth surge through him — a promise that, even in a mortal life, their bond had survived.
> "Shall we see what comes next?" he asked.
> "Yes," she said, taking his hand. "Together."
And as they stepped forward beneath the cherry blossoms, the wind seemed to carry a soft, familiar voice:
> "Every spring… every dawn… until the last blossom falls." 🌸