The morning light spilled over Shiomachi like liquid gold, glinting off tiled roofs and catching in the sea of pink blossoms that crowned the town. The air was crisp, the kind that filled lungs with promise, and carried the scent of salt and petals. But neither Ren Takahashi nor Aoi Fujimura had time to notice much of it — not today.
Ren dashed down the sloping street, his blazer flapping open, tie loose at his throat, hair wind-tossed and untamed. His breath came quick and steady as his long legs ate up the distance between home and school. The guitar case bumped lightly against his back with each stride, the strap digging into his shoulder, a familiar weight that kept him grounded.
Late. Again, he thought, pushing himself faster, sneakers slapping the worn stone path. His house — small but proud, its walls painted a soft cream, roof tiles dark with age — disappeared behind him as he rounded the corner.
Cherry petals flew into his face, clinging to his hair, to the curve of his jaw, before the wind carried them away. The street blurred: shop shutters half-open, neighbors waving too late for him to wave back, the low hum of a scooter passing in the opposite direction.
---
Aoi Fujimura was running, too — breathless, determined, heart racing. Her hair streamed behind her, the ribbon she'd tied it with long gone, caught somewhere in the breeze. Her bag thumped against her side, and her fingers clutched her sketchbook to her chest like it was the most precious thing in the world.
Her house — small, with white walls and a roof of weathered brown tiles, flowerpots crowding the front steps — shrank behind her as she sprinted through the back streets.
I'm going to be late. Again. And today of all days...
Her lungs burned, but she didn't slow. The world around her came in flashes: the smell of fresh bread from the bakery, the distant crash of waves, the pink snow of petals under her feet, the sharp bark of a dog as she sped past a garden wall.
---
The school came into view — stone walls, old and dignified, ivy creeping along the sides. The great cherry tree at the gate stretched its arms wide, showering the courtyard in petals that swirled like confetti.
Aoi skidded around the last corner, heart pounding. A gust of wind caught her sketchbook, tore it from her grip.
"No—!"
The pages flew open, a flurry of drawings — waves, skies, blossoms — and for one dreadful moment it seemed the whole book would be lost to the wind.
But a hand — quick, sure — shot out and caught it.
Ren stood there, breathless, cheeks flushed from his run, his dark eyes bright with surprise. His uniform was rumpled, his hair a mess of windblown strands, but there was something steady in him that calmed the wild beat of her heart.
Their eyes met, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
"You — thank you!" Aoi gasped, brushing loose strands of hair from her face with trembling fingers.
Ren handed over the sketchbook, their fingers brushing. His hand was warm, his grip gentle despite the rush.
"Careful," he said, his voice low, still catching his breath. "The wind's tricky this morning."
She hugged the book close, nodding, her face warm with more than just the run.
Ren glanced down at the page still open — a sketch of the sea at sunset, petals dancing across the waves.
"You drew this?" he asked, wonder in his voice despite the urgency of the moment.
Aoi ducked her head, breath hitching. "Y-yeah. It's not finished."
"It's beautiful," Ren said, meaning it, though the bell's shrill cry reminded them both that time wasn't waiting.
---
The schoolyard buzzed with motion. Mei Tanaka, camera always ready, caught sight of them beneath the great tree — two figures framed by falling petals, faces flushed, hair wind-tossed, the morning sun lighting them from behind.
She raised her camera in a heartbeat, the world narrowing to the viewfinder: the old stone walls, the gate, the sea glinting far beyond, rooftops below like a patchwork of gray and red.
Click. The shutter captured it — the rush, the breathlessness, the start of a story.
---
"Come on," Ren said, shifting his guitar case higher, his voice gentle but urgent.
"Right," Aoi breathed.
They ran together toward the gate, feet pounding on stone, petals caught in their hair, their shadows stretching long in the morning light.
From the steps, Haruki called out, laughing. "Ren! Last minute again? You're hopeless!"
"And you're loud," Ren shot back, grinning despite himself.
Haruki's eyes danced as he spotted Aoi. "And who's this?"
Ren glanced at her, and in that glance was the start of something neither yet understood.
"Aoi. We met just now."
"Nice timing," Haruki teased, falling in step with them.
Around them, the world of Shiomachi glowed: the sea beyond rooftops, the school's windows catching the morning sky, the cherry petals drifting like a promise of all that was yet to come.