Spring arrived quietly in the village, like a guest careful not to disturb a sleeping house. Mist lingered low over the earth, drifting across the narrow paths and between the wooden homes with their tiled roofs and paper doors. Dew clung to blades of grass, trembling whenever the morning breeze passed. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime rang, clear and delicate, like glass brushing glass.
She ran through it all as if she belonged to the season itself. Her small feet tapped softly along the dirt road. The hem of her pale kimono fluttered around her ankles, and the ribbon tying her hair slipped loose as she spun once, twice, arms spread wide as though she might rise into the sky if she spun fast enough.
"Careful, Reina," a gentle voice called behind her.
But the girl only laughed. Her laughter scattered sparrows from the roadside fence. She turned and ran back, colliding lightly into her mother's side before wrapping her arms around her waist. The woman swayed from the sudden embrace, then steadied herself with a soft smile that warmed her entire face.
"You'll fall if you run so fast," her mother said, brushing dust from the girl's sleeve.
"I won't," the child replied confidently. "The wind is holding me."
Her mother crouched down so their eyes met.
Up close, their resemblance was unmistakable: the same soft eyes, the same gentle mouth, the same quiet glow that seemed to live beneath their skin like hidden light.
"The wind helps only those it likes," her mother said. "So you must thank it."
The girl turned immediately toward the open road and bowed with perfect seriousness.
"Thank you for helping me run."
Her mother laughed softly behind her sleeve.
Everyone in the village knew the child. And everyone watched her pass. An old woman paused her sewing to wave. A grocer straightened from his baskets. Two boys stopped mid-argument.
"Such a beautiful little thing," someone murmured.
"She looks exactly like her mother."
"Those eyes... like clear water."
The girl never understood these comments. She only smiled shyly and hid behind her mother's sleeve, peeking out again moments later because curiosity was always stronger than embarrassment.
Beauty was not something she understood.
Kindness was.
Near the well, two girls her age sat braiding stems of wildflowers together. When they saw her, their faces lit instantly.
"You're late!"
"I was talking to the wind," she explained.
They accepted this without question and scooted aside so she could sit. Soon the three of them were weaving petals into crooked crowns, their heads bent close, their whispers drifting upward like butterflies. A shadow fell gently across them. Her mother stood nearby, watching.
Not calling her back.
Not interrupting.
Just watching.
There was peace in her gaze: the quiet relief of someone who had once known hardship and now wished only for her child to grow untouched by it.
When the girl finished her flower crown, she jumped up and ran to her.
"For you!"
Her mother blinked. "For me?"
She nodded eagerly. "Because you're the prettiest."
The woman accepted the uneven ring of stems as though it were made of silk and gold.
"Then I must wear it properly."
She placed it atop her hair.
The girl gasped.
"You look like a princess!"
Her mother leaned down and tapped her nose lightly.
"And what does that make you?"
The girl thought very hard.
"...A little princess?"
Her mother laughed again: soft, warm, and full.
From the road, her father watched them. He had just returned from town. Behind him, parked carefully at the edge of the path, stood a motorcar, glossy black, its metal sides catching the sunlight. The machine looked almost out of place beside the wooden houses and woven fences, like something from another world that had wandered accidentally into theirs. Villagers passing nearby stole glances at it with quiet awe. Such vehicles belonged only to the wealthiest families. Few in the village had ever seen one so close. But he did not notice their stares. His attention was fixed on his family. His daughter in the sunlight. His wife with flowers in her hair.
For a brief moment, the world seemed gentle. He stepped forward at last, polished shoes brushing dust from the road, his dark suit crisp and perfectly tailored despite the journey.
"There you are."
The girl turned instantly.
"Father!"
She ran toward him as though pulled by a string tied to her heart. He lifted her easily, settling her on his arm. His usually composed expression softened: the way it only ever did for one person.
"Reina has grown prettier again," he said.
She beamed, not from pride but because he sounded pleased.
The breeze moved slowly through the village that afternoon.
Petals drifted.
Sunlight lingered.
Laughter echoed.
And if anyone had seen them then: the small family standing together beneath the pale spring sky, the motorcar gleaming quietly behind them, the scent of blossoms in the air,
they might have believed nothing in the world could ever change.
But spring never stays.
And neither does happiness.