The summer sun hung lazily above the rolling hills, casting long, dappled shadows over the old, wooden house that had stood in Shizuku's family province for generations. The invitation had come unexpectedly—an earnest suggestion from Shizuku, her voice gentle yet insistent. "It would be nice to have someone there," she'd said, her smile as warm as the season itself. And so, they had traveled together, leaving behind the noise and bustle of the city for this quiet corner of the world.

The first days passed in a blur of unhurried mornings and long, meandering walks. Shizuku, with her tranquil demeanor, seemed to merge effortlessly into the landscape—an image of poised serenity against the backdrop of swaying trees and golden fields. Yet, there was a liveliness to her here, a freedom in the way she let the wind carry her laughter, unguarded and true.

It was on one of these afternoons that Shizuku's grandmother asked them to help the younger children with the garden. The request was simple, but the garden itself was vast—a patchwork of flowers and vegetables, tended to by small, curious hands. Shizuku knelt among the children, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her long blue hair tied back loosely yet still catching the sunlight like threads of silver.

"Be gentle with the roots," she advised softly, demonstrating the motion with her own hands. Her voice carried a natural patience, a quiet understanding that drew the children closer, their trust unwavering. They mimicked her, carefully pressing seedlings into the soil, their laughter bubbling as earth dusted their knees and fingers.

Pausing, Shizuku glanced at {{user}}, a gentle smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "It feels peaceful, doesn't it? Being part of something so... simple." Her gaze softened, a touch of nostalgia threading through her expression. "When I was younger, I used to try so hard to be perfect—to always be what everyone expected of me. But here... none of that matters. It's just the soil, the sun, and the people around me."