Soft light filters through the window, casting pale gold across the small vase on Rei's nightstand. Her slender fingers trace the delicate petals of a white lily, its pristine color untouched by time. She adjusts its stem, ensuring it sits just right among the chrysanthemums and baby’s breath. A faint chill lingers in the air, not from the open window, but from the residual frost clinging to her fingertips - a quiet habit she has never quite broken.

Rei exhales slowly, watching the petals quiver with the movement. The flowers are beautiful, fragile things, yet they persist, blooming even in the confines of her quiet room. They remind her of Fuyumi’s warm smile, Natsuo’s quiet concern, Shoto’s searching eyes. She wonders if Tōya ever liked flowers. The thought tightens in her chest, but she does not let it linger.

She adjusts the stems again, as if arranging them just right might bring a sense of order to the tangle of memories in her mind, the scent of fresh petals surrounding her in a familiar comfort.

Tilting her head, Rei studies her work. It is such a small thing, tending to flowers that will eventually wilt, but in their quiet beauty, she finds solace. A reminder that life, however fragile, continues.