The rain had passed, leaving the temple grounds washed clean. Puddles reflected fragments of sky, and the air smelled of earth and pine.
Ren Nakamura stood in the garden, rake in hand, moving gravel into careful patterns. Each stroke was precise, steady, controlled—yet his thoughts were anything but calm.
The memory of last night clung to him. He had spoken. He had revealed a piece of himself he had sworn to bury. And worse—Hana had not turned away. She had touched his hand, her presence warm, her acceptance unwavering.
It should have felt like relief. Instead, it unsettled him.
He had lived years behind walls, telling himself they were necessary. To lower them now felt dangerous, reckless. If she knew everything… would she still stay?
A shadow stretched across the gravel. Ren paused. Hana Takahashi stood at the edge of the garden, watching quietly, her sketchbook pressed against her chest.
"May I sit?" she asked.
Ren gave a faint nod. She settled onto the veranda, tucking her legs beneath her, her eyes following his movements as he shaped the gravel.
For a while, they said nothing. The only sounds were the rake's steady scrape and the cicadas in the trees. Yet the silence was charged, different from before.
Hana was waiting.
Ren could feel it, though she did not press. The weight of her quiet patience pressed against him more than words would have. He felt her nearness like a tide—gentle, but impossible to ignore.
At last, Hana spoke. "When you rake the garden, it looks calm. But inside… is it calm too?"
Ren's hand stilled on the rake. Slowly, he set it aside. His gaze stayed on the gravel, not her.
"No," he admitted. The word felt heavier than it should. "Inside is… not calm."
Hana's eyes softened. "Then it's all right not to pretend."
Her voice was gentle, but Ren felt himself recoil inwardly. Pretending was survival. Pretending was the only way he had endured.
He turned away, crossing his arms. "You make it sound simple."
"It isn't simple," Hana said. She looked down at her sketchbook, running her fingers over the cover. "But pretending is lonelier than being seen."
Ren's jaw tightened. Her words cut too close to truths he did not want to face. He stood abruptly, turning toward the garden's edge.
Hana did not stop him. She simply lowered her gaze, her silence neither accusing nor forgiving.
The distance stretched between them—he, pulling away; she, refusing to chase but refusing to vanish.
It was a rhythm they had fallen into without realizing. He revealed a piece of himself, then withdrew in fear. She reached out gently, then stepped back, giving him space without breaking the bond.
A dance of distance.
Ren stopped near the gate, his back to her. His breath came unsteady, though his posture was straight. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, he spoke:
"Hana."
She looked up.
"There are things I cannot say. Not yet."
Her expression softened, though sadness flickered in her eyes. She closed her sketchbook and held it gently in her lap.
"I understand," she said. Her voice was steady, carrying no reproach. "I will wait until you are ready."
Ren's chest tightened. Her patience was more terrifying than anger would have been. He did not deserve it, and yet she gave it freely.
He turned slightly, just enough to catch her form in the corner of his vision. She sat calmly, her presence quiet, steady as ever.
The distance between them remained, but it was no longer empty. It was part of their rhythm—push and pull, retreat and return. A fragile balance neither broke.
Ren exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. For now, the walls remained. But Hana's patience lingered at their edges, softening them in ways he could not ignore.
The dance would continue.
And though fear still pulled him back, he realized something undeniable: every time he stepped away, a part of him already longed to return.