By the time Haruto reached a town, he was exhausted.
Not artist exhausted.
Actually exhausted.
There was a difference.
The mountain roads had been brutal.
Two landslides.
Three broken bridges.
Several wrong turns.
And a goat.
Though,Haruto refused to discuss the goat.
"I HEARD THAT."
"..."
The settlement appeared just before noon.
Nestled between towering canyon walls.
At first glance, it looked hidden.
Then the sunlight struck.
The entire canyon exploded with gold.
Light poured from above.
Reflecting against pale stone.
Every building seemed to glow.
Every window shimmered.
The settlement suddenly made sense.
Brighthollow.
For one hour every day, the town became a river of sunlight.
Haruto stopped walking.
The sight was beautiful.
Which was unfortunate.
Because it guaranteed he would spend twenty minutes just to draw it.
Again.
Eventually he forced himself onward.
The town bustled with activity.
Miners.
Merchants.
Travelers.
Blacksmiths.
Caravans.
More people than he'd seen in weeks.
Good.
People meant information.
Information meant progress.
And progress was the reason he'd crossed half a continent.
"THAT IS A LIE."
"Shut up."
"..."
His first destination wasn't an inn.
Or food.
Or a place to rest.
It was the town records office.
A tiny stone building squeezed between a bakery and a mining supply store.
The clerk looked up as Haruto entered.
Then immediately groaned.
Haruto blinked.
"What?"
The clerk pointed at him.
"You're back."
"...back?"
"The artist."
Haruto froze.
Apparently he had been here before.
Not this town.
A different records office.
Then another.
Then another.
The realization hit.
The clerk wasn't recognizing him personally.
He was recognizing a type.
The traveling artist asking impossible questions.
Haruto sighed.
Fair enough.
The clerk opened a drawer.
Without being asked.
Then produced a stack of papers.
Haruto stared.
The clerk stared back.
Neither moved.
Eventually:
"How?"
The clerk shrugged.
"Word travels."
Haruto hold back his chuckle.
Because apparently his reputation had reached towns before he had.
Wonderful.
The clerk pushed the papers forward.
"You're looking for a librarian."
Silence.
The laughter vanished.
The room became still.
The clerk continued.
"Dark hair."
"Quiet."
"Always reading."
"Travels alone."
Haruto's heart skipped.
Not because it was confirmation.
Because it was familiar.
Painfully familiar.
Someone else had described Sakura recently.
Very recently.
The clerk tapped one document.
"Several reports."
Haruto sat down immediately.
Hours passed.
The canyon outside slowly brightened.
Then brightened further.
The famous golden hour approached.
Yet Haruto barely noticed.
Because for the first time in months—
the trail wasn't cold.
It wasn't years old.
It wasn't six months old.
The reports described a traveler moving through the region during the last season.
Someone matching Sakura's description.
Following northern routes.
Visiting archives.
Questioning historians.
Searching.
Searching for him.
And when Haruto finally leaned back in his chair—
he realized something.
The same thing Sakura had begun realizing.
He wasn't chasing memories anymore.
He was chasing someone who was actively moving toward him.
For the first time since arriving in Asterra—
Haruto felt calm.
Not excited.
Not desperate.
Not hopeful.
Calm.
Because deep down, he finally believed something.
They were going to meet.
Not if.
When.