The air in the room was thick with dust and memory.
We sat side by side on the rotting floorboards of the old house, the red curtains whispering in the breeze behind us like old ghosts. Aiko didn't speak, and neither did I. Not at first.
There was nothing left to say that hadn't already been spoken in dreams or written in old notebooks.
The silence between us was no longer hostile.
It was heavy.
Sacred.
Like the pause before a confession.
---
"I remember," I finally said, my voice like gravel. "That night… the forest… You were bleeding."
She turned her head toward me. Her gaze didn't flinch.
"You held me. Told me I wouldn't die alone."
"And you didn't," I whispered. "But you came back."
"I promised I would."
She reached into her coat and pulled out something small—flat and wrapped in cloth. She unrolled it slowly, carefully.
A photograph.
Faded with time.
I gasped.
It was us.
Both of us.
But younger. Just kids.
I was maybe twelve. She looked the same.
Smiling, arms wrapped around me, cheek to cheek.
"That's not possible," I said. "This can't be real."
"Memories don't lie," she said softly. "Only people do."
---
That night haunted me for years.
Bits and pieces had come back in flashes—screams, cold earth, the sound of water.
But now I saw it clearly.
We had run away.
Not from school. Not from home.
From everything.
I had told her we could make our own world. A place where no one would tear us apart.
She had followed without question.
Even after I let her fall.
Even after I left her behind in that riverbank, bleeding and unconscious.
---
"You almost died because of me," I said.
She smiled faintly. "And I almost lived because of you."
Tears blurred my vision.
"All this time… you waited for me to remember."
"I waited because I knew you would."
She turned to face me fully. Her fingers brushed my cheek.
"I was never angry you forgot. Only scared that when you remembered… you wouldn't want me anymore."
I gripped her hand.
"I tried to forget because I thought you were a nightmare. But now…"
I swallowed hard.
"Now I don't know if you're my salvation or my punishment."
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against mine.
"Does it matter? Either way, we belong together."
---
That night, we made the pact again.
No blood this time.
No knives.
Just a kiss.
Slow. Gentle. Final.
---
The next day, we didn't go to school.
We packed what little we had—cash from my father's drawer, her mother's old ring, the photograph. She tied her red ribbon into my backpack strap like a flag.
"I never stopped being yours," she said.
We boarded the train before sunrise.
Destination unknown.
---
The world outside blurred into silver and fog.
We didn't speak for a long time.
And when we did, it wasn't about the past.
It was about the future.
---
"I want a garden," she said.
"What would you grow?"
"Bellflowers. Because they never cry, even when they break."
"And you?"
"I want a room with a window. Facing east."
I smiled. "So you can watch the sun rise?"
She nodded. "So I know it still comes. Even after everything."
---
We rented a cabin by the woods.
It was old. Run-down. Perfect.
We patched the roof together.
Repainted the walls.
Planted those bellflowers.
They didn't bloom at first.
But Aiko whispered to them every morning.
And eventually, they bloomed too much—spilling from the windows like purple tears.
---
Months passed like dreams.
We wrote letters to no one.
Built stories we never told.
She still watched me when I slept.
I let her.
I wanted her to.
Because for the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of being seen.
---
Then, one evening, she knelt by the fire and took out the same ring she'd always carried.
Simple. Silver. Untarnished by time.
"I want to marry you," she said.
I stared at her.
"You already have my soul. Why would you want my name?"
She smiled. "Because your name was the first thing I ever loved."
---
We married in the woods.
No priest. No guests. Just us.
And the ghosts that watched from the trees.
We carved our names into the bark of a maple.
She tied her ribbon around it.
And in that moment, I stopped doubting.
Stopped fearing.
Stopped running.
---
I didn't know what the future would hold.
Whether the world would come for us.
Whether the past would wake up and knock on our door.
But I knew this:
We had each other.
And for once, that was enough.