Two days had passed, yet the time felt weightless. Yui had spent them tethered to the soft, steady rhythm of Jun's life support systems. She hadn't slept in her own bed, but her soul was finally resting. The constant, aching void that had haunted her for two years was gone, replaced by the solid, warm reality of his hand beneath hers.
On the third morning, she returned to school.
She moved through the familiar halls as The Silent Princess, her long, dark hair still pristine, her steps still impossibly light. Nothing in her actions had changed, but everything about her presence had. The heavy, protective frost that had once coated her—a cold barrier telling the world to keep away—had simply evaporated.
Now, she carried a faint, almost secret inner light, like a mountain spring that had finally broken through the earth. Her silence was no longer the silence of sorrow, but the silence of deep, fulfilled certainty.
In the classroom, in the hallways, the staring was more intense than usual. The news had spread not just through the school, but across the whole town. It was more than gossip; it was a legend. The boy who was lost to the sea was back, returned on his birthday. And the girl who had waited, who had endured the rumors and pity, had been proven right. Her unwavering, impossible faith had triumphed.
During the lunch break, the inevitable approach happened. A cautious group of girls, their faces a mix of curiosity and awe, gathered near her desk.
"Hanamura-san," one girl whispered, her voice tight with nervousness. "We heard the news... about Kuroda-kun. Is it really true...?"
Yui paused while packing her lunch box. For twenty-four long months, that name, spoken by anyone but Aoi or herself, had been a trigger for a visible withdrawal, a stiffening of her shoulders that told the world to retreat.
This time, she simply turned.
Her spring green eyes met theirs. The vacant, distant quality was gone. They were focused, bright, and calm—like looking into a well after the water has finally settled.
She didn't offer a dramatic nod or an explanation. Instead, a tiny, subtle shift occurred at the very edge of her mouth. It was a smile so small, so quick, that it was barely there—the fragile, beautiful ghost of a real expression. But to the girls watching, it was monumental, the first, long-awaited blossom of a flower they thought would never bloom.
"He's home," Yui stated, her voice softer than they had ever heard it, infused with the quiet, undeniable strength of someone who had commanded the impossible. She offered no details about the ventilator or the tear; those precious truths belonged only to her. "He kept his promise."
The cluster of girls exchanged stunned, respectful glances. There was nothing more to ask. This was the authentic Yui, the girl whose devotion was stronger than reality itself.
Her mission was clear. Every day, the moment the final bell rang, Yui would head not to the deserted, mist-covered shore to whisper to the sea, but to the clean, white halls of the hospital. Her love, once a passive spiritual anchor, was now an active, healing force. She knew he had heard her voice once. Now, she would not stop speaking until he woke up and came all the way back to her.