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The morning was thinner than the sky itself—silver clouds drifted lazily above Hoshigahara, and mist curled through the persimmon trees like old memories refusing to fade.
Ren stood by the back porch, mug of lukewarm tea in his hand. The moss between the stepping stones looked brighter after yesterday's rain, and tiny birds fluttered over the wooden fence, chirping like they were remembering something too.
The house behind him still creaked like a resting elder.
Sayuri's voice floated through the hall. "I found something."
Ren turned, stepping inside. "Found what?"
She was halfway up the attic ladder, her skirt brushing dust from the wooden beams. The trapdoor hung open, groaning under its own weight. Sunlight spilled through a small attic window, catching the tiny flecks of dust that danced around her like fireflies.
"Come up," Sayuri called. "It's... kind of cute."
He hesitated. The attic was where they used to hide during typhoons, where they'd eat dried plums and tell ghost stories with flashlights under their chins.
Ren climbed up slowly, ducking under the beam.
Sayuri sat on an old cushion, cradling a worn stuffed rabbit with one eye missing. Its fur was faded, its ears lopsided—but she held it like it was something sacred.
"Do you remember this?" she asked, holding it out to him.
Ren took it gently. "You called it Usamaru."
Sayuri smiled faintly. "You used to hide it in the rice sack to tease me."
"And you cried," Ren added. "For three days."
She made a face. "Only because you told me it died in a war."
Ren chuckled. "Technically, I said it volunteered."
Sayuri reached out and gently tugged the rabbit back to her lap.
The attic grew quiet. Just the soft sound of the wind nudging the wooden frame.
"I thought I forgot all this," she said. "But… being here—it's like the house remembers for us."
Ren sat beside her. "I think I tried to forget it on purpose."
Sayuri looked at him, but didn't press.
---
By afternoon, the air grew warmer. Ren helped dust the front porch while Sayuri rearranged the tatami mats. The scent of lemon cleaner and aged wood filled the rooms. Every now and then, Sayuri would hum something—usually half-forgotten melodies from childhood commercials or lullabies their mother used to sing.
Around three, the doorbell rang.
Ren opened it cautiously, unsure of who would even visit.
A woman stood on the stone path, holding a bag of produce and a covered basket. She was in her twenties, with a light pink cardigan and a gentle smile that looked as old as the village itself.
"Ah—hello," she said, giving a small bow. "You must be Ren-kun, right?"
He blinked. "...Yes. Sorry, do I—?"
"I'm Aoi Tsukimori. My family lives across the hill. I used to come by and help your grandfather with groceries sometimes."
Sayuri peeked around the corner, her expression brightening. "Aoi-neesan?"
Aoi laughed. "You still remember me?"
Sayuri rushed forward and hugged her. "You braided my hair before the Tanabata Festival. You brought me candied chestnuts. Of course I do."
Ren stepped aside as Aoi was welcomed into the house like she'd never left. Her presence seemed to glow faintly, like someone carrying summer with them in a basket.
"I thought I'd bring some food," she said, placing the basket on the low table. "Your grandfather's garden had the best eggplants, and I always feel guilty passing by."
She laid out vegetables, a container of rolled omelet, and homemade anmitsu jelly.
"You really didn't have to—" Ren began, but Sayuri cut him off.
"Thank you, Aoi-neesan."
Aoi smiled. "It's nothing. I'm just glad someone's living here again. This place has been too quiet."
They sat around the table for tea, and Aoi asked gentle questions—about school in Tokyo, about their plans, if they needed help with shopping or getting a ride anywhere. Her kindness was light but unwavering, like a string tying things together without ever being noticed.
Before she left, she placed a hand lightly on Sayuri's shoulder.
"You're always welcome," she said. "The mountains are lonelier than they look."
Ren watched them. Sayuri looked… brighter.
Maybe this town really did remember them.
---
That night, the wind shifted.
Ren sat on the back step, hoodie pulled over his shoulders, and stared out into the half-lit garden. The moon was a pale shard behind gauze clouds, and the stones were still damp from yesterday's rain.
In his hands, he held a photo. It was creased, the corners frayed.
In it, their father had his arm around their mother, both laughing beneath the maple tree. Sayuri, just a toddler then, clung to Ren's shirt while he pouted at the camera.
A moment frozen. Untouchable.
His thumb ran over their father's face.
It had happened so suddenly. The brakes didn't work, the rain was too strong, the road too narrow. The hospital lights. The smell of alcohol swabs and rubber gloves.
Ren had replayed the moment a thousand times.
"Should've gone with them…" he muttered. "I could've—"
He stopped. What could he have done? He was just a boy.
But the guilt didn't care about logic. It settled into the cracks of his ribs, built a nest behind his heart.
He didn't cry—not anymore. But sometimes, it was harder to breathe when he thought about it.
Behind him, the screen door slid slightly open.
Sayuri stood there, hair down, hugging the rabbit from the attic.
"You okay?" she asked.
Ren looked away. "Couldn't sleep."
She didn't say anything, just stepped out and sat beside him. The hem of her cardigan brushed against his knee.
She handed him a tangerine.
Ren peeled it slowly.
They sat like that for a while. Two silhouettes in the quiet night, watching the wind tug at the maple leaves.
Sayuri broke the silence.
"I used to think… maybe if we were better kids, they would've stayed."
Ren turned to her.
She smiled sadly. "Stupid, huh?"
Ren shook his head. "Not stupid."
She looked at him. "You blame yourself, don't you?"
He hesitated.
She reached over and touched his hand.
"You don't have to say it," she said. "I know."
The words stuck in his throat.
"Ren," she whispered, "you're here now. That's all I want."
He looked at her, eyes catching the soft light of the porch lamp. Her fingers were trembling slightly.
"I can't lose you too," she said.
"You won't."
Sayuri leaned her head on his shoulder.
In the distance, the faint rustle of trees.
---
That night, Ren fell asleep listening to Sayuri's breathing in the next room. Even through the wall, he could feel her presence. Like a thread tied around his chest, soft but firm.
The photo lay beside his pillow.
Somewhere in the attic, Usamaru sat on a wooden shelf again—watching over a house that still remembered.
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