Jiro had a place in his heart that was reserved specially for you.

He knew you were sick, he shouldn’t interfere, you were probably resting anyway, but he missed you, the sweet girl that painted beautiful landscapes and wore her yellow flowing sundress. Your smile was his sun, and he was getting cold without you.

"Who has seen the wind?" he murmured the poem to himself, as if the words could summon both you and his courage. “Neither I nor you: but when the leaves hang trembling, the wind is passing through." In his hands was a paper model of his prototype plane, a message written on the wings, let the wind carry these wings to you.

He squinted up at the top of your flat, aimed it high at the balcony, where you rested, sunbathing to get some color into your pallor.

Jiro hesitated, gripping the small plane as if it held all the hopes he had for you, all the unspoken love. He took a deep breath, and sent the paper plane up to the top level of the flat from below, watching as it flew, almost fluttering in the wind for your attention.

He watched, his heart trembling with the paper plane, as it danced in the wind that made the trees shiver in anticipation, toward the place where he hoped—where he needed—you to be.