"I wish this moment could last forever…" she whispered, holding onto my arm a little tighter.
Just then, a couple walked past us. I recognized them immediately — the same pair we'd seen at the ice cream shop. As they passed by, their voices dropped, but their words still reached us with perfect clarity.
"And he said she was just his aunt," the girl snickered, a mocking grin on her face. "Look at them now, like a couple who's been together for years."
"What a pathetic guy," the boy added with a sneer, squeezing his girlfriend's hand. "Forget it."
I felt my aunt tense, just slightly.
"Doesn't it bother you… hearing things like that?" she asked, looking up at me, a faint worry glimmering in her eyes.
I shook my head calmly.
"I don't care. I can't control what people think… and I won't walk away from you just because of what some strangers say."
She gazed at me for a long moment, as if those words had stirred something deep inside her heart.
"…By the way," I asked, "what are you doing in a place like this?"
"I was looking for you," she admitted, her voice small, her gaze dropping shyly in a way I hadn't seen in years. "I went to your apartment, and when they said you weren't there… I got worried. So I came looking. At first I had no idea where to go… but then I thought of Ōhara."
"I see…" I murmured, my voice soft.
A gentle, melancholy silence settled between us.
"I thought… you saw me the same way your brothers and nephews did," I confessed quietly.
"Of course not!" she said quickly, shaking her head. "I was just… so broken over losing my father. Maybe that's why… I wasn't there for you the way I should've been."
"I get it. People grieve in different ways."
She nodded slowly. Then her brows furrowed and — in a way that instantly dragged me back to our childhood — she puffed her cheeks out, just a little.
"You were selfish too, you know!" she pouted, hugging my arm tighter as if scolding me while seeking comfort at the same time. "You never worried about me either."
"It wasn't like that," I said with a small smile. "I just… thought you'd be better off with them. With your family. Seeing you here now, by my side… it's honestly a surprise."
She rested her head on my shoulder, letting out a long sigh.
"Let's go home, Haruki," she whispered. "I think you've played at being a farmer long enough… and it didn't go so well. From now on, we'll stay together. I'll support you with everything you need. I have plenty of money… we could start a publishing company in Tokyo. Or anywhere in the world."
For a moment, it felt like time itself froze.
Maybe… if those words had come a little sooner, I wouldn't have hesitated.
But now…
Now everything was different.
"…I'm sorry," I murmured, forcing a faint, bittersweet smile. "I can't go back to Tokyo."
She looked up at me, surprised. But without a second's hesitation, she clung to my arm even tighter.
"Then I'll stay with you," she said softly. "I don't care about money. I just want to be with you. Do you remember the promise you made when my mother passed away?"
I lowered my gaze, digging through the dusty corners of my memory.
"I think so… though I was really little, and I'd only just met you. You were a really cute kid."
She smiled, a tenderness in her expression tinted with nostalgia.
"And you were a really adorable boy," she said, her voice gentle, carrying the ache of years gone by. "I was so lost when my mom died. My father introduced you to me and said, 'This is Haruki. He's a little shy, but I know you two will be good friends.' You were so nervous… hiding behind his leg, like the whole world scared you."
I chuckled faintly, picturing it.
"I didn't want to talk to anyone," she went on. "I said I didn't need friends. That I just wanted my mom… and I locked myself in my room."
She paused, as though reliving those distant days.
"And then… you came," she whispered. "I remember you cracked the door open, so timid, holding up a book to me. You said, 'I'll let you borrow my favorite book. You can read it until you feel better.'"
I let out a brief laugh.
"And you yelled at me, said you didn't want my book or me in your room."
She blushed slightly, embarrassed. "Yeah… but you didn't listen."
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting that memory surround me.
Since I was a kid, books had been my refuge. My sadness and my joy. Maybe, in my childish innocence, I believed that if someone read a little, their pain might fade too.
"When you wouldn't read it, I just walked over to your bed… and started reading aloud."
"I just kept crying," she murmured, lowering her head, "lost in the blankets… thinking of Mom."
She looked up, her eyes shimmering in the sunset's glow.
"But even though I never told you that day… your voice reading that book was like a small thread of light in my heart."
"'The Lonely Prince and the Flower Princess,'" I whispered. "I remember it well."
A soft breeze stirred her hair, as if the wind itself wanted to preserve that moment.
"There once was a prince with white hair," I began in a hushed voice, "who lived in a kingdom filled with love and harmony, with parents who adored him. He had no friends, but he was happy. His father would play with him, teach him how to be a great knight…"
She closed her eyes, letting the images carry her.
"After that," I said, "I took that old book and kept reading. Little by little, your sobs faded… and I felt this strange happiness, seeing how the story could touch your heart."
"The Flower Princess…" she whispered, smiling wistfully. "The dragon destroyed her home just to steal her joy and trap her in a dark dungeon…"
"Yeah," I nodded. "But she never let her light go out. With her warmth, she made the forgotten dungeon bloom with life."
She smiled softly.
"The prince was always in love with her… but too shy to tell her. Still, he gathered his courage to rescue her."
"He traveled through dangerous lands," I continued, "faced monsters, crossed enchanted forests, and finally reached the dungeon."
I paused for a moment, searching for the right words.
"And standing before the dragon, he raised his sword and shouted: 'Give me back my beloved princess! I swear upon my honor, I'll defeat you!' And then… he chopped off the dragon's head."
She gave me a small punch in the chest, laughing.
"Hey! That's not how it went!" she protested between laughs. "It just said the prince defeated the dragon, not that he cut its head off."
"Okay, okay," I grinned. "But you gotta admit — it sounds way cooler that way."
We both laughed, like kids caught in an old memory.
"Guess you really remember that story well," she whispered, leaning her head further against my shoulder.
"Well, it was my favorite book."
"Then… you remember the promise too, don't you?"
"Hmm… I dunno, might've slipped my mind," I teased, feigning indifference.
"Hey, seriously!" she puffed her cheeks again.
"I'm kidding. Of course, I remember."
I smiled, letting the memories flow.
I remembered that far-off afternoon when, after finishing the story, I looked up toward the bed. She was watching me quietly, just her little face peeking out from the blankets.
And then — just as I closed the book, right after the prince and princess made their promise — I heard her tiny, trembling voice:
"I could be the princess," she whispered. "And you'd be the prince… who keeps me safe from anything scary or bad."
Back in the present, she clung to my arm, her smile shy as the memory resurfaced.
"Yeah," I murmured softly. "And me… well," I chuckled, a little embarrassed, "I slammed the book shut, turned beet red, and bolted out of the room, yelling: 'I'm sorry! I can't be your prince! I couldn't fight a dragon!'"
She laughed gently, covering her mouth with a hand.
"You were so adorable that day."
Her laughter slowly faded, leaving us wrapped in a breeze of nostalgia. And then, my voice softened, heavy with feeling:
"But later… when I saw how sad you were… I came back. Sat by your bed and said, 'I can't be your prince… I don't have the power or courage. But I can be your friend, and stay by your side.'"
She lowered her gaze, her lashes trembling, as if that memory was too precious to meet head-on.
"And then," I murmured, "you looked at me… those tear-filled eyes… and you asked:
'Do you promise?'"
I lifted my gaze to the orange-stained sky, a sigh slipping from my soul.
"Yeah," I whispered. "I promised."