Winter, Room 412
Snow pressed softly against the hospital window.
Takumi Aoyama sat beside the bed, hands folded around fingers that had grown thin with time.
Hana Fujisaki's breathing was fragile.
For months, Alzheimer's had dimmed her world.
But tonight
Her eyes were clear.
"Takumi," she whispered.
He leaned close.
"Yes. I'm here."
She searched his face like she had done at seventeen.
"If everything ends," she murmured, "and the world begins again… will your hands still search for mine?"
His throat tightened.
"They were made to," he answered.
Her lips curved faintly.
Outside, snow fell.
And memory opened.