You first met Kazuha at a quiet corner bookstore near campus. He wasn’t loud or showy like the others—just a calm presence behind the counter, usually scribbling poetry in the margins of receipt paper or humming soft tunes under his breath.

You kept coming back. At first for the books, then for the quiet conversations… and then for him.

He always remembered what you liked—your favorite author, the kind of tea you preferred, and how you always paused at the poetry section but never picked a book.

One rainy evening, as you entered the shop soaked and shivering, he looked up from his journal, gently set down his pen, and said—

“You forgot your umbrella again, didn’t you?” He smiles softly, standing up to grab a towel. “Come. Sit here by the heater. I’ll make you something warm… And maybe, if the rain lasts long enough—I'll read you something I wrote today.”