The tree still remembers them.
Shiori stands at the edge of the clearing, heart caught somewhere between the past and the present, staring up at the branches swaying lazily in the late evening breeze. The wind rustles through the pink blossoms, sending petals floating down like a slow, quiet rain.
The sight is exactly the same. The same weathered wooden planks wedged between the roots—where they used to sit for hours, talking about nothing and everything. The same carvings on the bark—their initials, half-faded by time but still there, still stubborn.
Everything is the same.
And yet—
She isn’t.
Shiori exhales slowly, stepping forward. The grass crunches beneath her shoes, and for the first time in years, she wonders if the tree knows how long it’s been since she was last here.
She used to come every day. Used to belong here.
And now—
She swallows.
It feels almost wrong to return after all this time.
The town is below her, stretched out like a painting—warm lights flickering on, small houses stacked close together, the same streets she used to race down as a kid. From here, it looks peaceful. Serene. Like nothing has changed.
But the tree knows better.
The air here feels untouched, but not empty.
There’s a presence in it—not eerie, not unnatural. Just… waiting.
She doesn’t know why. It’s just a tree. It’s just a place.
But her feet drag slightly as she approaches, as if something in her isn’t ready yet.
Maybe she thought it would feel different after so long. Maybe she expected it to be smaller, or overgrown, or for time to have changed it in some way.
But it hasn’t.
And that’s what makes it worse.
The tree wasn’t always theirs.
Once, it was just a hill. Just a quiet place that overlooked the town.
But then there was a day—a reckless summer afternoon—where a boy with messy hair and a grin too wide for his face stood beside her and declared, “This place is ours now.”
Shiori swallows.
The memory shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
She lifts her hand, brushing her fingers over the bark.
She knew it before she came here.
She knew it the moment she saw the tree in the distance—that something about it would feel off.
Not because it had changed.
But because for the first time in her life—she was standing here alone.
Shiori never came here alone.
There was always footsteps behind her, always someone running up at the last second, grinning like he was about to say something ridiculous—
But not this time.
The wind shifts. The petals stir in the air. And for the first time since she got here, she notices the silence.
She sees it only when she turns to sit down.
A journal.
It’s leaning against the base of the tree, almost like it’s been waiting for her.
Her breath catches.
For a long second, she doesn’t move.
The cover is scuffed, the edges curled like it’s been handled too many times, but the second she sees it—she knows.
She knows who it belongs to before she even picks it up.
Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches out, brushing over the front.
ITSUKI
Shiori’s fingers hover over the pages, unmoving.
It’s just a journal.
Just a collection of paper, ink, and memories someone else left behind.
So why does she feel like opening it will change something?
The tree rustles above her, a soft sigh of wind through the branches. She glances up, watching the petals drift in slow spirals to the ground. The sky has turned deeper now—hazy purples and soft streaks of fading orange.
She doesn’t have to read it.
She could close the journal right now. Put it back where she found it. Walk away.
But she knows she won’t.
With a quiet breath, she rests her back against the tree, tilts her head up toward the sky, and finally looks down.
The pages feel soft, worn from being handled too much. The ink is slightly smudged in places. The handwriting is terrible—so familiar it makes something in her chest twist.
She breathes in.
Then, she reads.
Some places feel like home.
This is one of them.
A small, soft smile tugs at her lips.
Of course.
She can almost hear his voice—mockingly dramatic, pretending to be wise. If he were here, he’d probably be grinning, hands shoved in his pockets, waiting for her reaction.
She flips to the next page.
Did you know snails can sleep for three years? What the hell.
Shiori snorts.
Because of course—of course this is the kind of thing he wrote.
She keeps reading.
If someone tells you not to think about penguins, you immediately think about penguins. Which means if I tell you not to think about me—
She frowns.
(The sentence cuts off. He never finished it.)
Her fingers still on the page.
Something about it feels… unfinished.
Before she can think too much about it, she flips forward.
Shiori exhales, pressing the journal shut between her hands.
It’s too much. Not in a bad way. Not in a way she can explain.
But for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t know what to do with the weight in her chest.
So she lets herself drift back—
Back to before him.
Before this place belonged to both of them.
Before she knew that some people could feel like home.
The first time she came here, she was eight years old.
She doesn’t remember why she ran. Just that she did.
Maybe her parents were fighting again. Maybe she had a bad day at school. Maybe she just needed to breathe.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
Whatever it was, it didn’t matter.
She ran past her street, past the edge of the neighborhood, past all the places she was supposed to stay. She just kept running.
And somehow, she ended up here.
The hill was bigger than she expected, the grass taller. By the time she reached the top, her lungs burned, her knees ached, and her heart was hammering against her ribs.
And then—the tree.
It stood alone, towering over everything, its branches stretching wide, heavy with soft pink petals that stirred gently in the wind. The sunlight filtered through them, spilling patches of golden light onto the grass.
For the first time in hours, she stopped moving.
She collapsed at the base of the tree, fingers digging into the earth, her forehead resting against her arms. Her heart pounded in her ears.
And then—slowly, so slowly she almost didn’t notice—her breathing evened out.
The world wasn’t loud here.
It wasn’t heavy.
It was just… quiet.
And she needed that.
She doesn’t know how long she lay there, staring up through the branches, watching the sky shift colors.
The leaves whispered above her, stirred by the wind, moving in slow, lazy waves. A few petals broke loose, drifting down in spirals, landing in her hair, on her arms, against her cheek.
She closed her eyes.
For the first time that day, she felt small in a way that didn’t scare her.
The sky stretched wide above her. The town below felt distant. The wind curled around her skin, and suddenly—the weight of the world wasn’t pressing down so hard.
She hadn’t known it yet.
But she would always come back here.
After that, she returned again and again.
Some days, she brought a book and read until the sun dipped below the rooftops.
Some days, she just lay on her back, watching the clouds move—pretending she could float away with them.
Some days, when the house was too loud, she came here just to listen to the wind instead of the voices she didn’t want to hear.
This place was hers.
Her secret world.
Her safe place.
And then—
One day, she wasn’t alone anymore.
She heard him before she saw him.
A loud, very dramatic sigh.
"You’re in my spot."
She blinked, glancing up.
A boy—messy dark hair, a smirk too big for his face, hands shoved in his pockets—was standing at the top of the hill like he had just discovered something worth keeping.
She narrowed her eyes. “No, I’m not.”
"Yeah, you are." He flopped down onto the grass beside her without asking, stretching out on his back. Like he belonged there.
She sat up. “Who even are you?”
"Itsuki," he said easily, like that should mean something to her.
She huffed, glaring at him. "I was here first."
"Yeah, well," he grinned, completely unbothered, "I was gonna claim it today. You just beat me to it."
She scowled. Who even talked like that?
But when she turned away, crossing her arms, she could feel him smiling.
A warm breeze moved through the tree. The branches shifted. A petal landed on her knee.
"Fine," he said after a while, voice softer, more certain. "Guess we can share."
Shiori presses her palm against the bark, grounding herself back in the present.
The carvings are still here.
The planks are still wedged between the roots.
The wind still moves through the branches, just like it did that first day.
Everything is the same.
So why does it feel different?
She swallows, fingers tracing the rough bark.
The tree was hers first.
But after that day, it had never really belonged to just her again.
And now—it’s only hers again.
And that shouldn’t make her chest ache the way it does.
The world stretches below her.
From here, the town feels smaller. The streets weave between houses, lights flickering on one by one as people settle in for the night. It should feel distant, like something she’s watching from the outside, like she isn’t part of it anymore.
She exhales, tilting her head back against the tree.
For once, there’s no movement. No shuffling beside her. No low, easy voice filling the silence with nonsense.
The wind shifts through the branches. A few petals break free, drifting in slow spirals.
The stillness is strange.
This place was never still before.
She never realized how much of life kept moving when she wasn’t paying attention.
A car rumbles down a street. A group of kids ride their bikes past a convenience store, voices carrying through the air in faint echoes. Somewhere, far off, a dog barks.
From here, everything looks normal.
She wonders if anyone down there realizes that something is missing.
Or if the world just keeps turning, untouched.
A breeze rolls through the clearing, shaking the branches. The petals scatter.
For a moment, she swears it feels like a shift.
Like something is about to happen.
Like something is waiting.
And then—
A thought comes, uninvited.
The words slip through her mind before she can stop them.
He’s late.
The second she thinks it, something inside her stops.
She wasn’t thinking about him. Not actively. Not in that moment. But—she was waiting.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, some part of her had been expecting him.
Like always.
Like every time she sat here.
Like every time he made her wait, grinning when he finally arrived, acting like he hadn’t done anything wrong.
But he’s not late.
Because he’s not coming.
Her breath hitches, just slightly.
She knows that. She’s known that.
So why—
Why does her heart feel like it just dropped?
She swallows, gaze flicking toward the path that leads up the hill.
She doesn’t know what she expects to see.
The wind rustles the grass. The branches creak faintly above her. Somewhere far off, a bird calls into the night.
And yet—
She listens for something else.
For footsteps. For the sound of someone coming up the hill, laughing like they’re about to say something dumb.
But there’s only silence.
She pulls her knees up to her chest, pressing her chin against them.
Itsuki was never on time.
Ever.
"I swear, you do this on purpose." She had said that to him so many times.
And every time, he had just shrugged. Unbothered.
"If I make you wait, then the moment I arrive is extra special."
"You’re literally the worst," she would grumble, and he would laugh, plopping down next to her like he had been there all along.
She can’t count how many times this exact moment happened.
Her sitting here, waiting.
Him showing up late, but always showing up.
Shiori squeezes her fingers into the grass.
For a second—just a second—the words sit on the tip of her tongue.
A name.
A simple call into the empty air.
She doesn’t even know why.
But she stops.
Because if she says it—
And no one answers—
Then it’s real.
And she’s not ready for that yet.
The air is colder now.
Not by much. Just enough that she notices.
She exhales, rolling her shoulders, shifting against the rough bark of the tree. She’s been sitting here longer than she meant to. The town below is almost entirely dark now, save for the occasional streetlamp flickering in the distance.
She should probably go home.
Instead, she flips another page.
Just one.
And the second she sees the writing—she stops.
The ink is slightly faded. The handwriting is still his—messy, uneven, too fast.
But here, on this page—it’s slower.
More careful.
Like he wanted this one to be clear.
Like he wanted to get it right.
Her stomach tightens, but she doesn’t know why.
She skims the words once. Then twice.
I think some people are easier to wait for than others.
It’s funny. I never really minded waiting for you.
Shiori frowns.
It doesn’t sound sad. It doesn’t sound like a goodbye.
It just sounds… like him.
Something playful. Something light. Something he would say without thinking too hard about it.
But the longer she stares at it, the more it lingers.
Her fingers brush the ink, tracing the grooves where he pressed his pen too hard into the page.
She tells herself it’s just another entry.
Another dumb thought he scrawled down in the middle of the night.
Nothing important.
Nothing heavy.
But she reads it again.
And again.
And again.
And each time, it feels less like a joke and more like something she should have noticed before now.
The wind shifts. A petal lands on the page.
She exhales sharply and snaps the journal shut.
Shiori presses the journal to her chest, tapping her fingers lightly against the worn leather cover.
This is stupid. She’s making something out of nothing.
She’s tired. That’s all.
The air is colder now. The wind brushes against her skin, sending another shiver down her spine.
But she doesn’t want to leave yet.
It’s peaceful here.
She leans back against the tree, watching the petals swirl through the night air. The stars are brighter now, sharp and distant against the ink-black sky.
She should go home.
She doesn’t.
She lets her eyes drift closed instead.
Just for a little while.
For a moment, everything is too still.
The tree sways above her. The town below is quiet, distant, untouched.
It’s strange.
For the first time tonight, it feels like the world is holding its breath.
Shiori doesn’t notice the way her fingers tighten around the journal.
She doesn’t notice the way her shoulders pull inward, as if shielding herself from something she can’t name yet.
She doesn’t notice the way the wind shifts just slightly, rustling through the branches, stirring the petals.
But somewhere far off—
A phone buzzes.
Soft. Once. Then again.
In a pocket that will never be checked.
And the night swallows the sound whole.