The days grew shorter, evenings settling sooner over the temple grounds. As autumn approached, the air carried a different weight—cooler, sharper, yet touched by a gentleness that hinted at change.
Ren Nakamura often found himself in the temple courtyard during these hours, when the sun dipped low and shadows stretched long. He had always liked shadows. They were constant, reliable—companions that demanded nothing, concealing what he preferred to keep hidden.
But lately, those shadows felt different.
It was Hana Takahashi who had changed them.
She had a way of sitting quietly beside him, sketchbook in her lap, her presence unintrusive yet undeniable. She did not scatter his shadows with light; instead, she sat with them, softening their edges, warming what had once been cold.
Ren could feel it most in the silences they shared. Once, silence was armor to him—thick, impenetrable. Now, silence had become a space where warmth could seep through.
This evening was no different. The lanterns had just been lit, their glow mingling with the dim afterglow of sunset. Hana sat on the veranda, sketching the outline of a maple tree whose leaves had begun to turn. Ren stood a short distance away, leaning against a wooden pillar, arms folded as usual.
The faint scratch of her pencil filled the air. She did not look at him, yet Ren felt her awareness reach him nonetheless. It was a curious thing—how she could make him feel seen even without her gaze.
After a while, Hana spoke, her voice low and even. "Ren-san… when I was a child, I was afraid of the dark."
Ren's eyes shifted toward her. She continued drawing, her pencil never pausing.
"My mother used to tell me, 'Darkness isn't empty—it only hides things until you are ready to see them.'" Hana smiled faintly, though her eyes stayed on the page. "I think she was right. The dark isn't as frightening now. Sometimes, it feels… gentle."
Ren absorbed her words in silence. He had always thought of darkness as something harsh, something to endure. Yet hearing her speak of it as gentle unsettled something inside him.
"Gentle," he repeated softly, as if testing the word against his own thoughts.
Hana glanced up at him then, her eyes calm. "Yes. Even shadows can carry warmth, if someone is there with you."
Her gaze lingered, steady but unpressing. Ren looked away, his jaw tightening. Her words struck deeper than he wished to admit. He thought of all the years he had relied on shadows to shield him, to hide his wounds. And now, without realizing when, those same shadows no longer felt as cold.
They felt… warmer.
Hana returned to her drawing, leaving his thoughts undisturbed.
Later that evening, as they walked back through the lantern-lit streets, the wind picked up. Hana lifted a hand to steady her hair, but the ribbon she had tied it with loosened, fluttering free. It drifted toward the ground, carried slightly by the breeze.
Ren's hand moved before he thought. He caught the ribbon mid-air, his fingers closing around the thin fabric.
Hana blinked, surprised. "Ah—thank you."
Ren held it out to her, his expression as composed as ever. Yet when her fingers brushed his as she took it back, a flicker of warmth ran through him—unexpected, disarming.
"It would've been lost," he said quietly, almost as if justifying the gesture.
Hana tied the ribbon back into her hair, smiling faintly. "Even shadows can be kind."
Ren paused at her words. For a moment, he thought she might have seen through him completely. But her smile was gentle, not probing. She wasn't trying to expose his heart—only to share its weight.
That night, as Ren sat once more at his desk, he did not write a letter. Instead, he simply sat in the candlelight, recalling the warmth of her fingers against his, the calm strength in her smile.
The shadows in the room did not feel as oppressive as before. They seemed softer, as though her presence had touched even the darkness he carried.
Ren closed his eyes, and for the first time, he did not feel entirely alone within the shadows.