Saturdays in Ikehama were always slow.
The streets near the station were quiet, the shutters of old stores half-closed, and the river wore a stillness that mirrored the gray sky above. It was the kind of day where time seemed to pause—just long enough to feel the weight of memories.
Airi Minase stepped onto the gravel path leading up the hill, a bouquet of white lilies cradled in her arms.
Her mother had liked lilies.
"They smell too strong," her grandmother always said.
But Airi liked them anyway. The scent lingered. Like perfume that refused to fade.
The cemetery sat atop a quiet slope, nestled behind a low gate and rows of evergreens. It overlooked the town—rooftops stacked like blocks, power lines stretching like veins across the sky.
She stopped at the grave. Her mother's name was carved in smooth, pale stone. The characters were neat, elegant, distant.
Airi knelt and placed the flowers down gently.
For a while, she didn't speak. The silence between them—between her and the stone—was the kind that didn't ask for words.
She reached into her pocket and unfolded a scrap of paper: a poem her mother had once written, scrawled in soft ink.
"Even the rain does not mourn like I do—It only falls."
Airi read the line again.
Then again.
The ache in her chest swelled, but her eyes stayed dry.
"I'm okay," she said, barely a whisper. "I'm trying to be, at least."
Her voice broke slightly. She bit the inside of her cheek.
"I met someone. A boy. He draws. A lot."
She smiled faintly, almost embarrassed.
"He said I look like part of the rain."
She touched the corner of the headstone with two fingers.
"I think... you would have liked him."
The wind rustled the trees gently, like a quiet reply.
She didn't notice the footsteps until they stopped behind her.
"Hey," said a familiar voice. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
Airi turned.
Ren stood just past the gate, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small can of iced coffee. He looked a little out of place—like someone who had wandered into the wrong memory.
She blinked. "What are you doing here?"
He held up the can. "Visiting."
She tilted her head.
He glanced toward the row behind her. "My brother's over there."
Airi said nothing. She stepped aside so he could pass.
He walked up to a grave a few meters away. Simple. Unadorned. He placed the can on the ground, crouched for a moment, then stood again.
"No flowers," he said. "He would've rolled his eyes."
Airi watched him, unsure what to say.
Ren turned back to her. "Didn't think I'd see you here."
She nodded. "I come every Saturday."
"Every week?"
"It's the only thing that still feels... normal."
He said nothing to that.
They stood in silence, the breeze gently nudging their hair, the world hushed like an old photo.
Then he spoke, softly. "My brother used to draw, too."
Airi's eyes widened. "Really?"
"He was better than me. Way better." He looked off toward the trees. "He used to say every line was like a breath. If it doesn't feel alive, don't draw it."
There was a strange smile on his lips. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
"He died in an accident," he added. "Two years ago."
Airi's throat tightened.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Ren looked down at his shoes. "It's okay. I don't think people know what to say to stuff like that. I didn't either."
Airi looked at the bouquet she had just placed. "Sometimes I think about all the things I never got to say."
"Same."
Another pause.
"Do you still draw because of him?" she asked quietly.
Ren's answer was immediate. "No. I stopped for almost a year. Couldn't even hold a pencil. Then one day, I started sketching on a napkin at a café. Didn't even realize I was doing it."
Airi watched him.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now I draw because it feels like breathing again."
She nodded slowly.
He glanced over at her. "What about you? Why poetry?"
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe because I couldn't say things out loud."
He tilted his head, considering. "You write your own?"
"Sometimes."
"Read me one?"
Her eyes widened. "Now?"
"Yeah. Right now."
She hesitated, then reached into her bag and pulled out the same folded paper from earlier.
She held it up, her voice soft but steady.
"Even the rain does not mourn like I do—It only falls."
Ren blinked. He didn't speak for a moment.
Then: "That's beautiful."
"It's not mine," she said. "My mother wrote it."
He looked at her again, but differently this time—like he was seeing something fragile and rare.
"I wish I could've met her," he said.
Airi didn't know how to respond. So she just nodded.
They walked down the hill together, side by side.
They didn't speak again until they reached the bottom, where the path split toward different neighborhoods.
Ren stopped.
"I didn't think today would be anything but difficult," he said. "But I'm glad I saw you."
Airi looked up. "Me too."
He hesitated for a beat. "Same time next week?"
She smiled—small, but real. "Maybe."
He grinned. "I'll bring flowers."
"For your brother?"
He shook his head. "No. For the girl who writes poems in the rain."
That night, Airi stood by her window as the wind blew gently through the curtains. The sky above was still heavy, and the stars remained hidden.
She placed the poem back into her drawer.
And beside it, she tucked something new: a blank page.
Tomorrow, maybe, she would try to fill it.
Not for her mother.
Not for Ren.
But for herself.