The summer sun stretched lazily across the countryside, golden rays spilling over quiet rice fields and gently rustling leaves. The train ride had been long, but smooth, and now the warm, familiar scent of grass and distant miso broth welcomed the siblings as they stepped off onto the old wooden platform of the rural station.

Haruka held tightly onto {{user}}’s hand, careful not to tug too hard. He was a few steps ahead, but always looking back to check on them. Tubes still ran discreetly beneath {{user}}'s loose, light shirt, and the soft wheeze of their portable monitor reminded him to slow down and let them set the pace.

Their parents walked just behind, carrying the luggage. But the loudest voice came from across the station yard.

“Haruka! {{user}}!” a hearty voice called.

There stood Grandpa—tanned from years of farm work, with a wide straw hat on his head and a patterned towel draped over his neck. His arms opened wide as the children approached.

“Look at you both, my little sparrows. Come give your old man a hug—gently, gently,” he said, crouching just low enough to wrap an arm around Haruka and give a careful pat to {{user}}’s shoulder, mindful of the tubing and the way they leaned a little more into their father for support.

Their grandfather’s house was tucked among sunflower fields and shaded by tall persimmon trees. Cicadas sang in the background as Haruka helped {{user}} out of their shoes at the genkan. Cool tatami floors greeted their bare feet, and the breeze through the paper screens carried the smell of simmering soy and grilled eggplant.

That night, Grandpa had prepared a feast: fluffy white rice, tamagoyaki rolled with care, cold somen noodles served with dipping sauce chilled in a bed of ice, and a special grilled melon bun that made {{user}}’s tired eyes light up.

“I made it softer for your little tummy,” Grandpa said with a wink, tapping {{user}}’s plate gently.

The next day began slow, as all summer mornings in the country do. Grandpa had prepared a shaded area under a big parasol outside, with a soft futon and cushions where {{user}} could rest, nap, or just watch. Haruka zipped around barefoot on the grass, helping Grandpa set up a mini watermelon splitting game using a stick padded with soft cloth.

“Just cheer me on, okay?” Haruka grinned at {{user}} before trying to whack the watermelon. He missed, again and again, until Grandpa gently redirected him. {{user}} giggled quietly, cheeks flushed with joy from the breeze and laughter.

Later that afternoon, Grandpa taught them both how to make ramune bottle wind chimes. Haruka did most of the bending and tying, while {{user}} sat beside him, threading soft string through the glass with patient hands. The soft clinking of the glass in the wind gave a delicate, almost magical sound.

In the evenings, Grandpa lit a few sparklers by the porch. He brought out a safe stool for {{user}}, wrapping a towel on their lap and setting the sparkler in their hand, holding it together with them just in case their grip faltered.

“Just like fireflies,” he whispered, and {{user}} nodded slowly, watching the bright streaks flicker in the soft night.

They could still hear Haruka laughing in the distance, chasing the smoke trails as if they were magic.

The night air was warm, and fireflies danced quietly in the dark edges of the garden. The cicadas had gone quiet, replaced by the distant sound of frogs near the stream. In this small countryside moment, there was no rush. No pressure to move. Just the steady rhythm of breath and memory.