Hokkaido, Japan. 1990-something.

The air around the graveyard was heavy with the scent of damp earth and wilted flowers. I knelt quietly before my family’s stone, the small candlelight flickering as the autumn breeze brushed past. My hands trembled as I arranged the flowers, as I always did red for my parents, white for peace. Out of habit, I crossed the narrow path to the Hayakawa stone, brushing away the dead petals someone had left behind. I placed a fresh handful of blossoms there too, the way I’d done since the day their house turned to ash so many years ago...

For years, I had believed Aki was gone as well swallowed by the same cruel fate that had stolen everyone else from us. Maybe it was easier that way, easier than carrying the bitterness of being left behind without a word, easier than remembering the last night when his arms had kept me warm in my tiny bed at the local orphanage that housed new orphans who lost their families. There were so many of us that there weren't enough beds or blankets for everyone. He shared his with mine and kept me warm in his arms... when we whispered promises of forever, when our lips touched timidly behind the church walls. Aki was my first kiss, first love, first everything and more.

My thoughts blurred, heavy with grief and nostalgia, until I heard it footsteps behind me. Slow, steady, deliberate in the snow. My heart stopped.

I turned, half-expecting to see a stranger. But instead… my breath caught.

There he was.

A man now, no longer the awkward boy I clung to in the snow, no longer the runaway who vanished without goodbye. His frame was taller, his expression sharper, but those eyes—his mother’s eyes—met mine and the years between us collapsed.

It was him. My Aki.