The world had forgotten the gods.
It began slowly — as all forgetting does.
Temples crumbled, altars overgrown with ivy and moss. The prayers of mortals drifted like faint echoes through valleys now filled with the sound of wind and water, not worship.
And in a small, hidden glade where the cherry trees bloomed twice each year, two figures lived in quiet peace.
The spiritwalker rose each morning to gather water from the spring.
Sakura — no longer divine, no longer divided — tended the garden of petals that surrounded their cottage, her hands stained with earth, not magic.
Sometimes, when the light of dawn caught her eyes, they shimmered — one iris pale violet, the other dark crimson — and the wind would stir, carrying faint whispers of voices long silenced.
> "Do you ever miss it?" he asked one evening, watching her braid her hair beneath the blooming branches.
She smiled softly. "Miss what?"
> "The power. The dream. The eternity of it all."
Her fingers paused, then resumed weaving the braid. "Power was heavy. Dreams were lonely. Eternity was empty."
She looked up at him, her smile tender. "This is better. This is real."
He stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Real fades."
> "Then we'll fade together."
The wind lifted a flurry of petals into the dusk — pink and black blending into the orange light of sunset.
---
But even peace carries echoes.
Some nights, when the moon was red and full, Sakura would wake in silence, her heartbeat syncing with the rustling of unseen branches.
In the farthest reaches of her mind, she could still feel the roots of the great tree — sleeping beneath the world, waiting.
And in her dreams, faint voices stirred — not cruel, not kind, but ancient.
> "You have rewritten the cycle, child of blossoms."
"But no law can end what was born from balance."
"Even spring must yield to something new."
When she woke, the spiritwalker was always there — holding her hand, as though he already knew.
They never spoke of the dreams. Not yet.
For now, the blossoms fell gently around them, glowing softly in the night.
A new world was blooming — peaceful, fragile, unaware that the roots of creation had begun to move once more.