Morning light spilled gently across the temple courtyard, filtering through the maple leaves in golden streaks. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of autumn soil. It should have been a peaceful day, but Hana Takahashi's heart felt heavy.
She had spent the night restless, replaying Ren's words from the evening before. His anger, his sharp rejection—it lingered like a wound. She wanted to reach him, to comfort him, yet his wall of silence had risen higher than ever.
But Hana herself carried a wall, one she rarely let others see.
As she swept the veranda, her thoughts wandered to the letter tucked inside her sleeves. It had arrived two days ago, sent from her hometown. She had not told Ren. She hadn't told anyone.
The letter carried her secret—the one she had buried beneath quiet smiles.
Her family's warm household had always seemed whole, but in truth, cracks had run through it for years. Her mother's health was fragile, often leaving her bedridden for weeks. Her father worked tirelessly, but the burden weighed heavily on him. Hana had learned early to carry silence, to smile gently while shouldering the things she could not change.
The letter had brought troubling news: her mother's condition had worsened. Doctors feared her strength would not last the coming winter.
Hana's hands trembled on the broom. She closed her eyes, steadying her breath. She had chosen to stay near Ren, to walk this path with him. But now… was she selfish to remain here when her family needed her most?
Her silence had always been strength. But now it felt like betrayal.
She sensed Ren before she heard him. His steps across the wooden corridor were steady, deliberate. He stopped a few paces behind her, his shadow falling across the veranda.
"You're awake early," he said, his tone as calm and cold as ever. Yet beneath it, faint traces of last night's storm lingered.
Hana straightened, her broom still in hand. "Yes. The air is clear today."
Ren studied her quietly. Her smile was faint, but her eyes seemed distant, shadowed. For the first time, he noticed how pale her hands were, how tightly she gripped the broom.
"You're hiding something," he said suddenly. His voice was low, but it carried weight.
Hana's breath caught. She turned, startled by his directness. "What do you mean?"
Ren's gaze held hers, sharp as a blade. "Your silence feels different today. Heavier. You're not as steady as you want me to believe."
She lowered her eyes, her hand brushing against the letter hidden in her sleeve. The weight of it burned against her skin.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The wind rustled through the trees, scattering leaves across the wooden steps.
Finally, Hana drew the letter out slowly and placed it between them on the veranda. Her hand lingered on it before pulling away.
"It's from my family," she said softly. "My mother… she has always been weak, but now…" Her voice trembled, though she steadied it quickly. "They fear she may not live through the winter."
Ren's eyes darkened, though he remained silent.
Hana continued, forcing the words out. "I didn't want to tell you. Not because I wished to hide it, but because… I feared it would burden you. You already carry so much, Ren-san. I thought if I stayed quiet, if I smiled, it would be easier for both of us."
Her fingers curled into her robes. "But silence cannot erase truth. Even mine."
Ren looked at her for a long time. The mask he wore did not shatter, but it shifted—his gaze softened, his coldness flickering with something else.
"You think I would see it as a burden?" he asked, his voice low.
Hana hesitated. "…Wouldn't you?"
For the first time, Ren's composure faltered. He turned his gaze away, his jaw tightening. The fire in him struggled between pride and care, between keeping distance and stepping closer.
He exhaled slowly. "You're wrong. To know your truth… it doesn't weaken me. It only makes me see you more clearly."
Hana blinked, startled.
He finally met her eyes again. His mask was still there, but beneath it, she glimpsed the same hunger she had felt—longing, care, and a fear of losing what had just begun to grow.
Her chest tightened, both in pain and in quiet relief. The truth was out. She was no longer only the one who listened to his silence—she, too, had scars, burdens, shadows.
For a fleeting moment, their walls seemed thinner, their distance smaller. But in the silence that followed, Hana realized something bitter: even if they drew closer now, heartbreak was already waiting on the horizon.