The rain fell softly in the quiet town of Mirai Hills. It wasn't loud or violent—just a steady whisper against the window panes, like nature's lullaby. In a small apartment above an old bookstore, Kaito Amasawa sat at his desk, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he finished folding the last paper crane.
A thousand cranes.
Each one a promise.
He glanced over at the hospital room across the street, where Hana Kisaragi sat by the window, her long black hair framing her delicate face. She hadn't noticed him yet. But he didn't mind. Watching her, even from afar, had always brought him peace.
They had met one spring day, two years ago. She had been standing under a cherry blossom tree, crying. Not loud, not broken—just a soft stream of tears that fell like petals. Kaito had been walking home from university when he saw her. Without thinking, he had approached and offered her a tissue.
"Thank you," she had whispered.
And that had been the beginning.
In time, their meetings grew more frequent. They'd talk about books, music, dreams, and fears. Kaito fell for her quietly, like a leaf drifting toward the earth. He didn't confess immediately. He didn't have to. Some things were understood without being said.
But fate was cruel.
Hana was sick—terminal. A rare heart condition, one that surgery couldn't fix. She was given a year, maybe two if she was lucky. Kaito didn't walk away. Instead, he stayed. Every day, he brought her something—a flower, a book, a joke, a memory. Anything to make her smile.
One day, she asked, "Why do you come here every day?"
He chuckled. "Because I like watching the stars with you. Even if the sky is cloudy."
She looked at him, her eyes shimmering. "But I might not be here tomorrow."
"I know," he replied softly. "But you're here today."
That night, they kissed for the first time. It was slow, gentle, like a promise whispered between broken hearts. From that day on, they became inseparable.
Kaito knew her time was limited. So he made a wish: If she couldn't have forever, he'd give her a lifetime in moments. He planned small dates in the hospital garden, danced with her during sunsets, and filled her room with colors of the world she couldn't visit. He told her stories of far-off places and played her favorite songs on his guitar.
But even moments run out.
One morning, Hana collapsed.
The doctors told him she didn't have much time left. Maybe days. Maybe hours. He didn't leave her side. He held her hand, whispering stories in her ear, memories of their time together.
And then, the night before she was supposed to leave the world, she asked him:
"If I don't wake up tomorrow… will you still remember me?"
He kissed her forehead. "I'll remember you even if I forget myself."
And she smiled. "If only we had met earlier."
Kaito didn't sleep that night. He sat by her bedside, drawing one last paper crane. But as dawn approached, her breathing grew shallow. She opened her eyes once more.
"I love you, Kaito."
He held back his tears and whispered, "I love you more."
Her hand slipped from his. And just like that, she was gone.
Days passed. The cherry blossoms bloomed again, like they had that spring when they first met. But the colors didn't seem as bright. Kaito returned to the bookstore, but nothing felt the same. The world had lost a piece of its beauty.
He tried to keep going, tried to smile. But the ache in his chest never left.
On the 100th day after Hana's passing, Kaito stood under the cherry blossom tree where they had first met. In his hands was a small box, filled with all the letters he had written her after she died. One for every day she was gone. He buried it under the tree, whispering, "You're still with me."
That night, the pain in his chest grew unbearable. He collapsed on his bed, a smile on his face as he clutched the final letter he had written—one where he spoke of seeing her again.
By morning, Kaito Amasawa was gone.
The cause was never determined. Some said it was a silent heart failure. Others said he died of a broken heart. But those who knew him believed something else.
They believed love, when true enough, doesn't end with death.
It simply waits.
Under the cherry blossom tree, every year, flowers bloom more brightly. Some say they see two figures there in the spring—a boy with a gentle smile and a girl with hair like silk—walking together beneath the falling petals.
And every April, a crane made of white paper is found at the base of the tree.
A silent promise.
A love that never faded.