Spring's last rains fell in gentle drizzles. Hana and Ren rose before first light to tend the grove. Their hands moved in harmonious routine: Ren pruning, Hana scattering new seeds. When dawn broke, petals glowed pink against the pale sky.
They paused beneath the old tree—still scarred, but alive. Ren knelt and offered Hana a small wood-carved box. Inside lay a ring—shaped like a crescent moon embraced by blossoms.
"For our promise," he said.
Hana slipped it on, eyes shining. "For our promise."
Together they planted a sapling where the broken branch had fallen. As they covered its roots, Hana placed her palm against Ren's. "I'll write our story," she said, "so that no whisper is ever lost."
He brushed a petal from her hair. "And I'll paint every page."
Beneath the newborn buds, they sealed their vow with a kiss—a pledge that love, once whispered under the cherry moon, would bloom forever in their hearts.