The garden had always been Ayaka's sanctuary. At dawn, the mist hung like a bridal veil over the dew-kissed roses and violet hydrangeas. Hiro watched her from the upper window, dressed in white, her figure still and composed, almost statue-like among the blossoms.
It had been three months since the bird incident.
Haruka no longer mentioned it. She had grown quieter, more observant. Her play had become more structured—dolls placed in specific lines, conversations whispered behind locked doors. Hiro worried, but Ayaka watched their daughter with a knowing, aching gaze, as though every step Haruka took echoed her own childhood.
One evening, while walking through the garden, Hiro stumbled upon a small, rusted gate hidden behind a wild curtain of ivy. The latch gave way with a screech, revealing a stone path that wound into an old orchard he'd never noticed before.
"Ayaka," he asked later, "did you know there's another path out there? Behind the garden?"
She paused, then nodded. "It was my mother's. She used to walk it when she felt... overwhelmed. It leads to the chapel."
"We have a chapel?"
"We had everything once."
He followed the path the next day. The chapel was small, its stained glass windows fractured by time, the wood weathered silver. Inside, dust motes floated in the light like spirits.
A bench.
A piano.
A locked chest.
The key, he discovered, was under the last bench plank. Inside the chest were dozens of Ayaka's childhood journals, bound in soft leather, pages stained with pressed flowers, ink, and time.
He read them all.
And in those pages, he met another Ayaka. One terrified of her thoughts. One desperate to be normal. One who fell in love with a boy who smiled at her even when everyone else turned away.
"I love you, Hiro. Even if you run, I'll still find you. Even if you die, I'll still wait. Even if you stop loving me... I won't."
The last journal ended abruptly.
March 12th.
The day her family left for Europe.
When Hiro returned to the house, Ayaka was waiting.
"You found it," she said, eyes shadowed.
"Why did you stop writing?"
"Because you stopped answering."
He walked to her, cupping her face. "I didn't know how. You were gone. I thought I'd made you up."
"But now you know I was always here."
That night, they lit candles in the chapel. Haruka sat on the piano bench, tapping random keys with curiosity.
Ayaka placed a flower crown on her daughter's head. "This is our garden of stillness," she whispered. "No one can hurt us here."
Hiro held their hands and watched the flickering lights. He felt time slow, the pain recede, replaced by something sacred.
Peace.
Even if fleeting.
But peace, he had learned, was not the absence of danger.
It was the willingness to live with it.
And love it anyway.