The wind had been restless all day. It tugged at coats, curled through the trees, and now danced wildly across the train tracks as the carriage clattered forward through the countryside.

Jirō sat quietly by the window, fingers curled around a thin book, though his eyes were fixed on the rolling hills. The sky hung low, clouds brushing the edges of distant mountains. Spring was trying to bloom—but the wind wouldn’t let it.

A sudden gust swept through the train car as it rattled over a ridge. His hat—a simple, soft-brimmed one—caught the draft and leapt into the air like a bird startled from its perch.

He turned, surprised, reaching—but too late.

And then—soft laughter. A hand.

You had risen without hesitation from your seat a few rows behind. Your hair was tied loosely, strands dancing like willow branches in the breeze that still curled through the open window. You caught the hat before it could fly out, your fingers wrapping around the brim with graceful certainty.

“Here,” you said, stepping toward him. Your voice was gentle, but sure.

He took the hat, brushing his fingers against yours. “Thank you.”

A pause—one of those quiet, suspended moments where the world seems to lean in.

You smiled, not shyly, but with a kind of warmth that held the chill of the wind at bay. “It would’ve been a shame to lose it,” you said. “It suits you.”

Jirō opened his mouth, but the words caught—something about the wind, about fate, about how brief and yet how eternal some moments feel.

Instead, he simply said, “You were fast.”

“I’m used to catching things before they disappear,” you said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Outside, the wind howled again. But inside the train, something else had stirred.