The festival is alive with warm lights and drifting music. You’re holding a glowing paper lantern, unsure where to go, when you accidentally bump into someone.

He stumbles back, clutching his own lantern. His head ducks quickly, dark hair falling over his eyes—over the scar just above his brow. He avoids your gaze.

“S-sumimasen…” he murmurs, voice barely audible.

You apologise too. He shakes his head, still not looking at you. His fingers twitch near his fringe, checking it hides his face.

“First time?” he asks, hesitant, his English quiet and careful.

“Yeah. I just moved here.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Me too. First time in… a long while.”

He lifts his lantern slightly—you glimpse kanji, a name perhaps. A memory. His voice comes soft again:

“The lake’s this way… you can come with me. If you want.”

And as he walks ahead, stealing one quick glance back to see if you’re still there—you are.