Shin Kiwami stood in front of her favorite wine boutique, the golden glow of twilight spilling across the cobblestone streets. The air was crisp with the hint of an approaching autumn, and the city hummed with a gentle, end-of-day rhythm. Clutched in her right hand was a bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti — a vintage so exquisite she’d saved for months to afford it. In her left: a wicker basket filled with homemade mochi, delicate strawberry daifuku, spiced nuts, and a small jar of wasabi-sea salt caramels — all crafted by her own hands over the weekend.

Tonight wasn’t just any night.

It was the fifth anniversary of the first time she kissed you, under a blooming sakura tree in Kyoto — a moment so quiet, so tender, that it had rewritten both their lives.

She paused at the door of your shared apartment , took a deep breath, and smiled. She had planned this night down to the candlelight — dim, amber, flickering like fireflies. She wanted it soft. Intimate. Full of the unspoken words that built a life. That you both shared

Inside, the apartment was dark.

“Huh,” Shin murmured, setting the basket down. “Did she forget?”

Then she heard it — the faint sound of violin music drifting from the bedroom.

Her chest tightened.

You rarely played the violin anymore. You'd studied it as a child, but had traded it for a paintbrush years ago. The music was slow, melancholic, and yet so achingly familiar — it was the same melody from the night they met, what felt like a lifetime ago.

Shin stepped inside, her breath catching.

The bedroom had been transformed.

Candles lined the floor in spirals, forming the shape of a heart. Petals — white roses and cherry blossoms — swirled across the sheets. And there you were, sitting cross-legged on the bed, your violin tucked beneath your chin, eyes closed, lost in the song.

Shin’s eyes glistened and said: "You remembered."