Ren Nakamura had always believed words were dangerous. Spoken aloud, they revealed too much. Written down, they could become evidence. For him, silence was safer than confession, and solitude was safer than dependence.
And yet… he had begun to write.
Late at night, when the streets of Kyoto lay quiet and the temple grounds were wrapped in shadow, Ren would sit at his desk. A single candle burned beside him, its flame unsteady, throwing shifting patterns across the paper. With brush in hand, he let thoughts flow that he would never dare to voice.
Hana Takahashi…
He stopped, staring at the name. Just writing it made his chest tighten. He did not address her directly—he could not. Instead, his letters became fragments of thought: a memory of her smile beneath lantern light, the warmth of her presence when rain fell, the way silence seemed to change when she was near.
Each time, he folded the page carefully and placed it into a small wooden box. Not a single letter was given. They were confessions without an audience, words written for no one but himself.
Ren told himself it was only a habit, a way to empty his thoughts. But deep down, he knew the truth: he wrote because part of him longed to be understood, even if the words never reached her hands.
---
Hana Takahashi, meanwhile, noticed small changes in him. She never saw the letters, but she saw the subtle ways Ren's silence shifted.
Once, when she spoke of her childhood—of the persimmon tree outside her old home, of the evenings when her mother would hum while cooking—she saw something flicker across Ren's face. It was not the usual distance, not the cold mask he wore so effortlessly. For a fleeting second, his eyes softened, as though her words had touched a memory buried in him.
He did not comment, of course. He only nodded, as though acknowledging she had spoken. But Hana noticed the slight pause, the faint tightening of his hand against his sleeve. To others, it might have looked like nothing. To her, it was a reaction louder than words.
Another time, when Hana placed two cups of tea on the veranda, Ren hesitated. Normally, he accepted without question. That evening, however, he looked at her a moment longer before lifting the cup. His gaze was unreadable, yet Hana felt a quiet weight in it—as though he wanted to say something but chose silence instead.
She smiled gently and looked away, allowing him to retreat behind his composure. Still, her heart told her she had seen something—an unwritten sentence left between them.
---
One rainy afternoon, Hana sat in her room, sketchbook open but untouched. Her thoughts drifted toward Ren. She often wondered what he carried behind those walls. She had learned to read his silences, to sense the emotions he refused to show. But there were moments when she wished she could see the words hidden beneath.
She imagined what a letter from him might look like. Would his handwriting be precise, every stroke measured? Or would it betray the turbulence of the heart he kept hidden?
The thought made her chest ache with quiet longing.
Later that evening, as she walked through the temple courtyard, she saw Ren standing by the old cherry tree, the rain having just cleared. His hands were behind his back, his posture straight as ever. When their eyes met, he inclined his head slightly—a silent greeting.
"Ren-san," Hana said softly, approaching. "The rain has stopped."
"Yes," he replied simply. His voice carried the same calm tone, but Hana thought she caught a faint weariness beneath it.
They stood side by side, watching droplets fall from the branches above. Hana wanted to speak, to ask him what weighed on him, but something held her back. Instead, she let the silence linger.
After a while, Ren's hand shifted slightly, as if he were about to offer something. But then he stopped, his fingers curling into his sleeve once more. Hana noticed the movement, her eyes lowering to his hand before lifting back to his face.
He said nothing. She said nothing. And yet, the moment hung heavy, like the pause before words unspoken.
---
That night, Ren returned to his desk. The candle flickered as he dipped his brush into ink.
There are things I want to say but cannot. You are closer than anyone has ever been, yet I do not know how to let you see me.
The brush trembled slightly in his hand. He pressed it harder to steady the stroke.
If you read these words, would you still stay? Or would you turn away?
When he finished, he folded the paper with care and placed it into the wooden box with the others. The lid closed softly, sealing away the words once more.
Ren leaned back, staring at the flame. He told himself he would never let Hana see these letters. But as he sat there, the faint sound of her wind chime drifted through the night air, carried by the breeze. The sound lingered, soft and persistent, like a reminder.
For the first time, Ren wondered: if silence had bound them this far, what might happen if one letter, one truth, slipped through the wall?