That night, Yuki dreamed.

  He stood in a field of silver grass, beneath a sky that pulsed with slow-moving stars. There was no sound. No wind. Just stillness.

  Ahead, a figure stood with their back turned. Tall. Familiar. Cloaked in something like moonlight and paper.

  Yuki stepped forward. “Shirou?”

  The figure didn’t answer.

  But a voice—soft, clear, inside his chest—spoke a single line.

  “Finish it for me.”

  Yuki woke with the taste of those words still on his tongue.

  He sat up, the dream already slipping through his fingers. But the feeling remained. A strange pressure in his chest, like something trying to surface. Like a memory that never belonged to him.

  Later that morning, back at the bookstore, Aoi returned with a notebook tucked under her arm.

  She looked tired, but not from lack of sleep. More like she’d been walking through a dream of her own.

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” she said. “The letter. The last line.”

  Yuki nodded. “I had a dream.”

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  Her eyes widened. “Was he there?”

  He didn’t answer. Just looked at her. And that was answer enough.

  Aoi sat beside him at the counter. “What if we tried?”

  “Tried?”

  “To finish the poem,” she said. “Together.”

  He hesitated. “But we don’t know what it was supposed to be.”

  Aoi smiled. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not about remembering what he wrote. Maybe it’s about discovering what we’re meant to say.”

  They opened a fresh page.

  No pressure.

  No plan.

  Just ink and silence.

  Yuki began:

  “Some loves never bloom, but still root deep—

  Beneath silence, beneath sleep.”

  Aoi added:

  “They whisper not in voice, but rain,

  And carry names we can’t explain.”

  Back and forth, line by line, they wrote.

  It wasn’t perfect.

  It wasn’t finished.

  But it felt alive.

  And when they looked up from the page, the space between them had changed. Not with confession. Not yet. But with something stronger than that.

  Understanding.

  Outside, rain began to fall again.

  But this time, it wasn’t heavy.

  It was gentle. Like a soft applause. Like the world agreeing with something quiet and sacred between them.