They met every evening.
Always beneath the sakura.
Always fading by dawn.
Airi learned:
Ren remembered fragments.
A promise.
A girl.
A spring night.
But not why he existed.
Not how long he had waited.
Not what he truly was.
"Does it hurt?" Airi asked one night.
"To fade?"
Ren considered.
"It feels like falling asleep… while someone you love is still talking."
Her chest tightened.
"Do you… remember her?"
"The girl?"
He looked at her strangely.
"I remember how she felt."
"How?"
"Like home."
Airi looked away.
Petals landed in her hair.
Ren reached — hesitated — then gently brushed one away.
His hand almost touched her cheek.
Almost.
But not quite.
His fingers passed through.
They both went still.
"…sorry," he murmured.
Airi shook her head.
"It's okay."
But something inside her ached.