The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of the city gallery, casting a golden hue over the polished floors and the hushed, elegant crowd. Voices murmured softly—art critics, collectors, university professors, and curious guests all moved slowly from canvas to canvas. On the far wall, under a soft spotlight, hung Aiko's painting: "Echoes of Sakura."
It was a piece born from memory and longing—a solitary cherry blossom tree caught in the wind, its petals dissolving into stars, as if time itself had torn the seasons apart. It had taken her three months to complete, and every stroke carried a piece of her heart—of her walks with Haruto, of the quiet tears shed in her dorm, and of the whispers of doubt she had once wrestled with.
Now, her work had been chosen as part of the annual Rising Voices Student Art Auction. And it wasn't just exhibited—it was the final piece of the evening. The centerpiece.
Aiko stood to the side of the gallery hall, fingers laced tightly in front of her, her sketchbook clutched under one arm like a shield. She wore a navy-blue dress that Hinata had helped her choose, and though she looked calm, a storm of nerves twisted inside her.
Beside her, Haruto beamed with pride. He had taken an early train from the observatory field trip just to be there, his camera hanging from his neck.
"You're trembling," he whispered, nudging her gently.
"I'm fine," she lied, eyes darting toward the stage where the auctioneer had taken his place. "I'm just... terrified."
Haruto chuckled. "You've stood in front of critics, professors, and hundreds of eyes. This is just numbers and raised paddles."
"And money," she said. "What if no one bids?"
"Then I'll sell my telescope and buy it myself."
Aiko rolled her eyes but couldn't help the smile that curled at the edge of her lips.
The auction began with small, enthusiastic bids on various student pieces—sculptures, abstract works, charcoal portraits. Aiko listened with half an ear, her heartbeat a persistent drum in her chest. She barely heard her name announced. It wasn't until the auctioneer said, "Opening bid for 'Echoes of Sakura' begins at 10,000 yen," that her breath caught.
The silence that followed was excruciating.
And then—
"Ten thousand."
A paddle went up from a woman in a crimson coat.
"Fifteen," came another voice.
"Eighteen."
"Twenty."
Aiko blinked. The numbers were rising, not falling. She gripped Haruto's arm instinctively. The painting—the piece she had doubted, the canvas she had stared at for hours wondering if it meant anything at all—was sparking competition.
"Twenty-five."
"Thirty."
The bids rose in a cascade, climbing past what she had even dared to dream.
"Forty-five thousand yen," announced the auctioneer. "Do I hear fifty?"
Silence.
And then, softly, confidently, from the back of the room: "Fifty."
Aiko turned. The bidder was a well-dressed elderly gentleman, silver-haired with sharp eyes and a quiet grace. She recognized him from the art magazines Haruto sometimes read—Mr. Kobayashi, a respected patron of emerging Japanese artists.
The hammer came down.
"Sold! To Mr. Kobayashi for fifty thousand yen."
The room broke into light applause, polite and warm. But Aiko barely heard it.
She had sold her first painting.
She turned to Haruto, whose grin was so wide it almost made her laugh.
"You did it," he said, voice thick with joy. "Aiko, you really did it."
Her eyes were damp now, tears threatening to fall. "I didn't think... I mean, I hoped, but—"
He squeezed her hand. "It's real. You made something that moved people."
Later that evening, she was formally introduced to Mr. Kobayashi, who complimented the emotional depth of her work and expressed interest in seeing her future projects. He gave her a card and told her that real art came not just from skill—but from sincerity. "Your painting," he said, "tells a story of time, memory, and love. That's rare."
Aiko bowed deeply, overwhelmed.
By the time the gallery began to empty, she and Haruto were sitting on the stone steps outside, under a sky slowly turning violet. The auction lights behind them glowed softly, and the quiet hum of Tokyo wrapped around them like a lullaby.
"I feel like I just woke up from a dream," she said softly.
Haruto leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the evening stars. "This is just the beginning."
She looked at him. "Maybe. But I think I'll remember this day for the rest of my life."
He glanced sideways at her. "I'll remind you of it every year."
Aiko laughed, the sound light and full. She leaned her head on his shoulder.
The world around them pulsed with the life of the city, the distant horns, the quiet steps of strangers. But within that moment, they were still—just two students with dreams too large for their hands, yet somehow still within reach.
And somewhere inside, a girl who once feared her art would never matter whispered to herself: I belong here.