Prologue – The City of Fireflies

Some nights, I still dream of that summer. The one where the fireflies danced, and she stood beneath them, laughing like the world would never change.

I was seventeen when I first met her. Eighteen when I left.

Hoshimachi was always too small for me. A town with quiet streets and sleepy afternoons, a place where people were born, lived, and died without ever seeing the world beyond its hills. I swore I wouldn’t be one of them.

But then she happened.

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She saw beauty in everything—the way the wind carried the scent of summer rain, the way the old train station creaked under the weight of forgotten years. She could turn a moment into a memory with nothing but a smile. And somehow, in the middle of that unchanging town, she made me feel like I belonged.

For the first time, I questioned everything.

Did I really need to leave? Was the world beyond the hills really worth more than the one she showed me?

I left anyway.

And now, when I look out at the endless city lights, I wonder if she still waits by the abandoned station, humming softly to herself, watching the fireflies fade.

Or if she stopped waiting long ago.

Because no matter how far I go, I can still hear her voice in the wind. And sometimes, when the nights are quiet enough, I can almost feel her beside me.

Like the ghost of a summer that never truly ended. Like a firefly’s glow—brief, beautiful, and impossible to forget.