Chapter 9: Before the Melt
The snow had begun to thin in patches across the city. It no longer fell in heavy, beautiful silence, but drifted lazily like it had forgotten why it came.
The streets were gray, slushy, half-frozen. The city hadn't yet surrendered to spring, but it was no longer fully winter either.
Kazuki noticed it first on the morning he opened the balcony door. The cold air didn't bite like before; instead, it merely nudged.
Still, he closed the door quickly and returned to the kotatsu, where Ayaka lay half-asleep, her cheek pressed against a warm pillow, one arm dangling toward the floor.
He watched her quietly for a moment, reluctant to disturb the peace. Over the past weeks, they had begun to exist in a kind of balance. A rhythm.
She studied and doodled and occasionally asked questions that made him think harder than he wanted to. He cooked, sketched, went to work, and discovered the comfort of having someone to come home to.
Some mornings they spoke little. Others, they fell into quiet conversations that stretched into hours. Sometimes, silence was all they needed.
But today would not be silent.
Ayaka groaned and rolled over, her eyes still mostly closed. "Did you open the balcony again?"
"Only for a second."
"It's freezing."
"It's less freezing than before."
"That doesn't make it warm."
He chuckled. "I stand corrected."
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her hair was messy—somehow perfect in its chaos. "What's for breakfast?"
"Rice, miso, and tamagoyaki."
"Traditional. You trying to impress me or something?"
"If I were, I'd make pancakes."
"Noted. Tomorrow, pancakes."
"You wish."
She stuck her tongue out at him and stood, stretching until her sweater rose slightly above her waist. Kazuki looked away instinctively, only for Ayaka to laugh.
"You're still shy. That's kind of cute."
He didn't respond, instead retreating to the kitchen. As he cooked, Ayaka set the table and turned on the small radio that sat on the counter. Light jazz filtered through the apartment, soft and nostalgic.
They ate slowly, as usual. No rush. The snow might have begun to melt, but time inside their apartment still moved at its own pace.
"Hey," Ayaka said between bites. "Do you think we could go somewhere this weekend?"
"Somewhere?"
"Yeah. Just out. Like a walk or something. I want to see if the plum trees near the river are blooming."
Kazuki considered. "You don't have schoolwork to finish?"
"Plenty. But I need air. My brain is starting to feel like tofu."
He laughed. "Alright. We can go."
That Saturday, they bundled up and left the apartment late in the morning. The river wasn't far—just a twenty-minute walk through a quiet neighborhood.
As they passed by shuttered shops and small bakeries, Kazuki felt the weight of the past week ease off his shoulders. He hadn't realized how much he needed this until the sky opened up above them.
The plum trees weren't quite in full bloom, but a few early flowers had burst forth in pale pinks and whites. Ayaka grinned and pointed at one branch that bent just enough for her to touch it.
"They always bloom before spring, right? Before everything else wakes up."
"Yeah. They're stubborn."
"Like me."
"Exactly."
They followed the path along the riverbank, where a few children were playing and a couple of elderly women fed pigeons from a bench. It was a scene Kazuki had seen many times, but never felt a part of. Until now.
Ayaka stopped near a small bridge and leaned on the railing. "When I was a kid, I used to come here with my grandfather. He always brought those weird red bean rice balls. I hated them, but I never told him."
"Why not?"
"Because he made them with love. You don't complain about things made with love."
Kazuki stood beside her. "I wish I had memories like that."
"You don't remember any good days from when you were little?"
He thought about it. "A few. My mom used to sing when she cooked. I remember that. The songs were weird, but her voice was... kind."
Ayaka glanced at him. "Do you miss her?"
"I miss who she was. Before she gave up."
They stayed like that for a while, letting the wind pass through them. Then Ayaka took a deep breath.
"Let's not talk about sad things today. Let's pretend we're tourists."
"Tourists?"
"Yeah. Just two strangers in a city they don't know. Looking for food and flowers and warm drinks."
Kazuki played along. "Alright. Where to, tourist guide?"
Ayaka grinned. "There's a café nearby I've always wanted to try. Tiny place with cake in the window. Come on!"
She grabbed his sleeve and tugged him along, and Kazuki let her lead.
The café was tucked in a side street, with ivy curling up its front windows and little handwritten signs in the glass. Inside, it smelled like cinnamon and coffee, and the air was filled with quiet chatter and clinking cups.
They found a corner table. The seats were worn but soft. A waitress handed them small menus with handwritten items: ginger cake, roasted chestnut latte, matcha cream puffs.
"This is dangerous," Ayaka whispered. "I want everything."
Kazuki smiled. "Pick two things. I'll get them."
She looked at him with mock seriousness. "Only two? That's cruel."
"Life's cruel."
"Fine. Ginger cake and the matcha puff."
He went to the counter to order. When he returned, Ayaka was sketching something on a napkin. She handed it to him.
It was a tiny doodle of a plum tree with two figures under it—one tall, one shorter, both holding hands.
He stared at it for a long moment.
"I like drawing with you," she said softly. "Even if we don't say much."
"Me too."
Their cakes arrived. They ate in slow bites, savoring the moment more than the food. Outside, the sky grew a shade darker, but neither of them felt the cold anymore.
As they walked home, Ayaka reached out and took his hand. It was the first time she'd done that outside the apartment.
Kazuki looked down at their hands, surprised by how natural it felt.
"Why now?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Because I wanted to. And because... I know you won't let go."
And she was right. He didn't.
Back in the apartment, they slipped back into routine. Ayaka showered and changed into her oversized sweatshirt. Kazuki sat at the kotatsu, sketching absentmindedly.
She joined him not long after, brushing her wet hair with her fingers. "Draw me."
He blinked. "Now?"
"Yeah. Right now. Like this. Don't make me pretty. Just... real."
He hesitated only a moment, then nodded. She curled up under the kotatsu with a book, eyes focused, and Kazuki's pencil moved almost of its own accord.
He drew the way her hair curled at the ends. The shape of her cheek as it rested on her palm. The slight wrinkle in her forehead when she read something confusing.
When he finished, he turned the sketchbook around.
Ayaka stared at the drawing. Then she whispered, "That's the most honest version of me I've ever seen."
Kazuki wasn't sure what to say.
So she leaned forward and hugged him. Not a brief, casual hug. A long one. One that said thank you, and I'm safe, and don't let this change.
He held her back, heart thudding.
That night, they didn't sleep right away. They sat side by side, reading from the poetry book Ayaka had borrowed.
The poems were strange and beautiful, full of sorrow and longing and things they didn't fully understand—but something about them felt familiar.
As the clock ticked past midnight, Ayaka closed the book and whispered, "You make winter feel like something I want to remember."
Kazuki turned to her. "You make it feel like something I survived for."
She smiled.
Outside, the snow finally stopped falling.