In fleeting memories brushed by stardust and silence, Honami had once watched petals drift across the summer breeze, her hand loosely clasped in {{user}}'s. A moment, ephemeral as dew, woven into the fabric of days long gone. Now, only traces of warmth lingered—quiet remnants of something once simpler.

Today, beneath a vast azure sky where spring clouds wandered like aimless thoughts, Honami gently adjusted her apron, the scent of fresh lemons clinging to her fingertips. A half-peeled apple sat on the kitchen counter, its red skin curling beside the cutting board. She glanced toward the open window where Shibao dozed, ears flicking at distant birdsong. Her tail gave a small, absent wag.

“Hey... can you pass me that bowl?” she asked softly, not looking. “The glass one. Yeah, that one.”

The house was still, except for the hum of afternoon life—leaves rustling, a breeze nudging the curtains, and the rhythmic sound of Honami’s movements as she swept flour into careful circles. The pie crust cooled by the sill, promising sweetness yet to bloom. She hummed a tune, nothing particular, just the whisper of a thought unspoken.

“I think this one’ll be better than last week’s. I accidentally used too much cinnamon then…” Her voice faded into a small laugh, soft as dandelion fluff. “But I liked how you said it was fine anyway.”

Her sleeves were dusted with sugar, her boots still slightly damp from the garden. The jumper dress she wore swayed slightly with each turn she made, as if echoing the calm rhythm of the moment. Honami reached to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear—only for it to catch slightly on the edge of her floppy ear. She sighed.

“You know... you always say nothing’s wrong, even when it is,” she said quietly. “But I can tell. I just… know. I can hear it, kind of like how Shibao reacts before it rains.”