The cherry blossoms near the old campus wall were in fullbloomagain.
They neverfailed to arrive in clusters, so pale they seemed almost translucent under the morning sun. Their petals clung stubbornly for days, then fell all at once, like a quiet surrender.
Every year they cameback—uninvited, unbothered by the passing of time, bringing with them a ghost of afternoons Ashpen wished she could either erase entirely or relive without flinching.
Back in high school, those afternoons had been defined by onegirl—always sitting by the far window, always with her head tilted slightly as though listening to music noone else could hear.
She would sketchclouds in the margins of her notebooks, each one shaped differently, as if she was cataloguing the sky in her own private archive.
Sometimes, in the middle of a lecture, Ashpen would catch the faintesthum drifting from her direction. A sound so soft it could have been mistaken for the ceiling fan, if not for the way it carried a note of thoughtfulness—like she was playing with a melody only she understood.
Ashpen would glance over, pretend it was just casual, and find her half-smiling at something beyond the glass.
Always beyond-
Now, in her second year of college, that seat existed only in memory.
In the lecture halls she attended, someone else always filled it—a girl with earbuds in, scrolling through her phone between notes, or a boy tapping away on his laptop.
Never her-
And yet, the poet'spresence still lingered in Ashpen's life—not as a constant ache anymore, but as something folded away. Literally-
The poem lived in the back of her diary, creased and softened by years of being carried.
It wasn't obsession,
notanymore.
She told herself that often. It was just… a piece of something that had matteredonce. The only true version of the girl before she vanished.
Before she became a mystery that Ashpen had never been allowed to solve.
She had almost let go.
Almost-
She'd learned how to smile again, how to talk to people without mentallycomparing them to the poet.
She'd made friends—some closeenough to share playlists with, some who dragged her out for openmics when she'd rather stayin. She'd even stood on stage once, palms damp, voice trembling as she read a short piece she'd written called Echoes Leave Traces
It wasn't about her, not exactly-
But everyone who had known…
-knew
__________
That Thursday was slow from the start.
The sunlight felt unhurried, spilling across the courtyard in long, warm ribbons. Even the birds seemed to hold their voices in softer tones,
-as if they were aware that the day wasn't meant for loudness.
Students shuffled out of the psychologyblock, their bags hanging low, shoes dragging against the pavement.
Ashpen had a long break before her next class, so she headed for the café at the edge of campus—a small, tucked-away place with chipped mugs, a mismatchedcouch in the corner, and the kind of quiet she trusted.
She ordered her usual and took a seat by the window. The tea was hot, fragrant, its steam curling upward as she stirred it with absent-minded circles.
She was halfway through a thought—about whether to write something new for the next open mic—
when a voice came from beside her.
Soft-
Warm,
Familiar in a way that made her chest tighten instantly.
"Still taking your tea plain? I always thought you were secretly bitter like the leaves."
The spoon in her hand clinked against the cup.
She froze.
That voice—
It carried the same balance it had back then: teasing on the surface,
testing underneath.
Her heartbeat pickedup, thudding hard against her ribs.
She turned her head slowly, afraid her mind was playing one of its cruel tricks again.
And there she was-
The first thing Ashpen noticed was the hair—slightly longer now, the ends curlinglazily as if they'd been left to dry in the wind.
Her skin had taken on a warmertone, kissed by sunlight she must have chased elsewhere.
There was a smallmole near her collarbone that Ashpen didn't remember.
Her clothes were casual—loose shirt, worn jeans—but they sat on her like they'd been tailored for her pace of life.
She had changed-
She had grown.
But her eyes—
Those eyes were still oceans.
Still the same calm at the surface, storms hidden deep enough that you'd have to dive for days to touch them.
"Hi," the girl said.
Just hi...
Like she hadn'tdisappeared three years ago. Like there hadn't been a hollowseason after she left.
No explanation.
No apology.
Just a greeting, soft as a petal landing on water.
Ashpen's throat felt too tight to speak.
Every possible reaction fought for dominance—shouting, laughing, crying, asking whynow, demanding whythen.
-butall she could manage was a shaky inhale, her eyes locked on the poet's face, searching for proof she was real.
The poet smiled.
Not with guilt, not with triumph—just with a kindofknowing, as if she'd expected this moment to feel exactly like this.
"I go by Kaze now," she said, her voice still holding that careful lilt.
"It's Japanese for 'wind'. Thought I'd give myself something that resonates better with me."
The name settled between them like dust catching in a sunbeam.
Ashpen remembered a moment from years ago—Kaze leaning back in her chair, looking out the window during a lullinconversation.
"Sometimes I wish I could rebirth myself," she'd said.
"Like a story halfway through… where the writer just tears the page and starts over."
Maybe this was that
________
Ashpen found her voice, thin but steady.
"Why me?"
Kaze's gaze softened.
She took a smallsip from her cup before answering.
"Because… you remembered. Even when I didn't want anyone to."
The words hit deeper than Ashpen had braced for. Her fingers tightened around her mug, the warmthseeping into her palms.
They sat in silence then—not awkward, not weighted with hostility, but layered. A silence built from years of separatelives, each containing their own versions of pain and healing.
Ashpen didn'task for details yet-
She knew better.
And Kaze didn'toffer them.
Some truths needed to stay unspoken until the air between them was ready to hold them.
Steam rose from their cups, driftingupward like unfinished sentences.
A breeze moved through the café, carrying the faintscent of rain that hadn't yet arrived. Outside, a few cherry blossom petals lifted from their branches, drifting aimlessly before settling on the sidewalk.
Kaze glanced at them, then back at Ashpen. There was the faintest curve of a smile on her lips, the kind that made Ashpen feel both comforted and unsettled.
And Ashpen, still holding her tea, thought—
Maybe the wind had never really left.
Maybe it had just been circling back.
Somewhere in the quiet, Ashpen realized—this wasn't the end of a story.