The Spring Festival had arrived, and Hanamura was alive with color.
Paper lanterns swayed gently above the crowded streets, casting a warm glow over the cobblestone paths. Stalls lined the walkways, selling everything from yakisoba to cotton candy, and the laughter of children echoed beneath the blooming cherry trees. Music floated through the air—soft traditional strings mingling with the occasional pop song from a radio somewhere.
Himari Tachibana stood at the edge of the main road, just beyond the shrine gates, her heart fluttering with every breath. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, a soft pink ribbon woven through it. Her yukata was pale lavender, patterned with white sakura petals, chosen after an hour of indecision and quiet dreaming. She clutched the letter in her small purse as if it were a charm of courage.
8PM. Lantern tree.
It was 7:53.
Her feet moved on their own, guiding her up the familiar path behind the shrine, toward the hill where the oldest sakura tree stood—larger than any other, with hundreds of small lanterns strung between its branches. They called it the Lantern Tree, and for decades, couples had confessed under its glowing branches.
As she climbed the path, each step felt heavier. Her fingers clenched the edge of her sleeve. What if she was wrong? What if no one came?
But at 7:59, she reached the top.
And someone was already there.
A boy stood beneath the blossoms, dressed in a simple navy yukata, his silver hair catching the light of the lanterns like strands of moonlight. He turned slowly as she approached, his eyes wide behind thin-rimmed glasses.
Himari froze.
She knew him.
He was a year above her—quiet, always sitting in the back of the library after school. She remembered seeing him sketch once during lunch, headphones on, lost in a world of pencil and paper.
His name came back to her like a whisper.
Haruki Aizawa.
For a moment, they just stared at each other.
He was the first to speak.
"You came," Haruki said softly, his voice unsure but sincere.
"You're H?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
He nodded, eyes lowering slightly. "I… I didn't think you'd recognize me."
"I didn't," Himari admitted. "Not until now."
"I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner. I thought… if I told you directly, it would ruin everything. But watching you smile when you read the letters… it made me hope."
Himari stepped closer, the wind brushing past them with gentle grace. "Why me?"
Haruki looked up, meeting her eyes at last. There was nothing dramatic in his expression—just quiet honesty, the kind that spoke louder than words.
"Because you were kind to Momo when everyone ignored her. Because you drew the sky like you were painting your soul into it. Because you always hummed the same song, even when you were alone. I saw you… and I couldn't forget."
Her chest tightened, full and fragile at once.
"I didn't think anyone noticed those things," she said.
"I did," Haruki replied. "I noticed everything."
They stood in silence as the lanterns swayed above them. And then, slowly, Himari smiled.
"I was hoping you'd be here," she said quietly. "Even if I didn't know who you were… I always hoped."
Haruki's eyes widened. "You did?"
She nodded. "Your letters… they were like sunlight after winter."
His lips parted in soft awe, and for the first time, he stepped forward. "Can I… give you one more?"
He reached into the pocket of his yukata and handed her a folded piece of paper. Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it.
> "To the girl who made my world bloom,
*You were always more than just the spring.
You were the reason it came back at all.*
—Haruki.*"
When she looked up, he was smiling—nervously, shyly, but it was real.
"I've never said this to anyone before," he said, voice unsteady, "but I think… I've fallen for you, Himari."
She held his gaze. Then she stepped forward, just enough for her sleeve to brush his.
"Then I think," she said softly, "you should walk me home."