The next morning, Hana rose before dawn. From her window, she watched a lone figure beneath the cherry trees by the river's bend. He moved with quiet purpose, kneeling beside a wooden easel, brush in hand. Drawn by curiosity, Hana slipped on her coat and crept down the stone steps.
"Good morning," she called softly.
He looked up—tall, slender, hair dark as onyx. Ramune stains dotted his shirt, and his fingers bore the faintest pink smudges. "I'm sorry," he said with a polite bow. "Did I disturb you?"
"No," Hana said, stepping closer. The canvas revealed an almost–finished painting: a river, moonlight skimming its surface, petals drifting as if alive. In the background, two distant silhouettes stood beneath a blossom".
Hana Moriyama." She hesitated, then added, "I write."
Ren's eyes flicked to her notebook. "Maybe we chase the same thing." He gestured at an empty stool. "Sit?"
They talked for hours—about art and words, about urban loneliness and rural wonder. Ren's childhood had been spent in this town, helping his grandmother prune orchards. He painted to keep her memory alive after she'd passed, leaving behind a worn journal of poems addressed to a long-lost love.
Hana peered at the journal's calligraphy: one page read, "On nights when the moon blossoms, I send you my every heartbeat." A tear blurred the ink. Ren caught her eye. "It's her voice," he whispered. "I swear I can still hear it."
At midday, they parted with a promise: Hana would transcribe the poems into her own words; Ren would illustrate each with petals and moonlight. As Hana walked back to the inn, the blossoms overhead seemed to lean closer, their petals hitchhiking on the breeze, trailing her like luminous punctuation.