The afternoon sun filtered through the narrow windows of the university dormitory, casting long shadows on the neatly stacked books and cluttered desks. Aiko returned from her afternoon classes, her satchel slipping from her shoulder as she entered the shared dormitory lounge. She moved almost absently toward the mailboxes along the wall, a habit now, though they were often empty.
Today, however, a small envelope rested quietly inside her box.
It was plain, slightly wrinkled, with her name written in the familiar, looping handwriting of her mother. Aiko's heart gave a sudden, unexpected lurch. For a moment, she only stared at it, her fingers hovering hesitantly. Then, with a careful touch, she retrieved it and cradled it between her palms, as though afraid it might vanish.
Back in her room, she sat down by the window, letting the soft Tokyo breeze ruffle her hair. Slowly, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
"Dear Aiko," it began, "How is the big city treating you?"
The moment her mother's words unfolded before her eyes, Aiko felt a lump rising in her throat. It had only been a few months since she had left their sleepy hometown behind, but it felt like a lifetime. The scent of the riverside, the chatter of the neighborhood, the slow, familiar rhythm of small-town life—all of it felt impossibly distant.
"The house is much quieter now," the letter continued. "Your father has taken to fixing the garden every weekend. I think he misses having you around, though he would never say it outright. The sakura tree you loved is blooming again. It's even more beautiful this year. The neighbors often ask about you, wondering how you're settling in."
Aiko's eyes blurred with tears. She could almost picture it—the tiny yard outside their old house, the aged sakura tree bowing with the weight of new blossoms, the faint scent of the earth after rain.
"I know university must be busy," her mother wrote, "but don't forget to take care of yourself. Eat properly, even if you're rushing between classes. Sleep well, even when the city refuses to quiet down at night. And most importantly, don't lose that light you always carried with you—the one that made you spend hours drawing in the attic, the one that made you dream beyond our little town."
Aiko brushed away a tear with the back of her hand. The city was thrilling, yes. Endless. Alive. But it was also overwhelming. There were days when the buildings felt like walls, and the crowds like a river she couldn't swim against. There were nights when loneliness gnawed at her, sharp and insistent, in ways she couldn't explain even to Haruto.
She continued reading, her heart aching and warming with each word.
"Your father and I are so proud of you, Aiko. Always remember that. Pursue your dreams with the fierce heart you've always had. But know that you can always come home if the world ever feels too big. Our door is always open, and our hearts are always with you."
The letter ended simply:
"We miss you. We love you. Write when you can."
"Love,
Mother."
Aiko folded the letter with trembling hands, holding it tightly against her chest. The room around her seemed to fade—the clamor of the dormitory, the endless rush of the city beyond her window. For a long moment, it was just her and the words from home, wrapping her in a warmth she hadn't realized she so desperately missed.
When the first wave of emotion passed, she placed the letter carefully in her desk drawer, as if it were the most precious thing she owned.
Later that evening, Haruto found her sitting by the riverside near their campus, a place she often went when she needed to breathe. He sat down beside her without a word, watching the water flow steadily past.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
Aiko smiled faintly. "I got a letter from my mom."
He nodded, understanding immediately. "Homesick?"
"A little," she admitted. "It's strange. I love being here. I love what we're doing. But sometimes... sometimes I miss the way things used to be."
Haruto looked thoughtful for a moment, then leaned back on his hands, staring up at the dusky sky. "It's okay to miss home. It's part of who you are. You're not losing it by being here—you're carrying it with you."
She turned to look at him, his profile outlined against the soft light of the setting sun. And for a moment, the weight inside her heart lifted. He was right. Home wasn't something she had left behind. It was stitched into her—into the way she saw the world, into the dreams she chased with trembling hands and hopeful heart.
Aiko took a deep breath, feeling the crispness of the air fill her lungs. "I think I'll write back tonight," she said, her voice steadier now.
Haruto grinned. "They'll be happy to hear from you."
"Yeah," she said, smiling. "And maybe I'll tell them about everything. About Tokyo. About school. About you."
He laughed, pretending to look embarrassed. "Make sure you tell them I'm very responsible and a good influence."
"I'll think about it," she teased, nudging him with her shoulder.
As they sat there, watching the city lights begin to flicker awake across the river, Aiko realized that even though she sometimes felt lost in the vastness of this new life, she was never truly alone. Threads of love—woven from her past and her present—tied her gently but firmly to the people who had shaped her.
And in that knowledge, she found the strength to keep moving forward.