Chapter 10

  Flowing Letters In The Snow

  I cradle the teacup, its warmth unfurling against my palms. The fragrance of steeped leaves rises, delicate and grounding. The weight of the world lingers beyond the shoji panels, but here, it does not press. Not yet.

  The lantern’s glow softens, pooling in golden ripples across the tatami. Shadows shift—an old dance, familiar and unhurried.

  Beyond the window, snowflakes drift, fragile and fleeting, merging into the hush of the city’s breath.

  My gaze returns to the laptop, its screen casting a pale glow against the warmth of the room. My fingers hover, then move.

  A folder: Saved Letters.

  I double-click.

  The letter loads, and anticipation stirs within me—sharp, vivid, a held breath before release.

  Then, her words emerge.

  A small smile finds my lips as I lean closer, voice barely a whisper as I read aloud:

  I pause, letting the warmth of her words settle in the air. Even through the screen, she carries the same quiet humor, the same tenderness that makes distance feel smaller than it is.

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  Her words settle into me, gentle and certain.

  I lift my teacup, tracing the rim with absent fingers. The room feels even stiller, as if the steam rising from the tea carries the weight of her message, absorbing it into the hush.

  My gaze catches on a single line:

  

  The phrase hums with quiet resonance, like a melody half-forgotten, familiar yet newly profound. A thread tugs at something deep within me.

  Carlito reminds me of Akina.

  I murmur the thought aloud, and it lingers in the quiet. An artist with a soul that cannot be contained.

  The truth of it presses against me, soft yet insistent. The world beyond the window—snow-dusted rooftops, lantern-lit streets—blurs as Akina’s memory washes over me, gentle as a tide returning to shore.

  I see her—Akina, much younger—sitting beside me as we painted cherry blossoms on silk. Each petal unfurled against the fabric as if stirred by an unseen breeze. Laughter bubbled between us, unguarded, bright.

  Life had felt simpler then. Each brushstroke carried the weightless promise of possibility.

  The letter calls me back, but my thoughts drift, following Akina’s thread. Always with a sketchbook or paintbrush in hand, her creativity burned like a flame no one could contain.

  She was never meant for the quiet rhythms of an ordinary life.

  Neither is Carlito.

  I set my teacup down, fingers tracing the delicate rim. I reread the letter, lingering on the weight of Concha’s words.

  

  A truth, simple yet full.

  I wonder—can any of us truly be contained? Or do we all, in our own ways, slip through the spaces we’ve outgrown, leaving behind fragments of ourselves?

  For now, I let the thought settle.

  Let Concha’s words rest in the hush of the room, mingling with the snow’s quiet descent.

  The moment is here, and I am within it, holding its beauty close.