The lake was still, mirroring the sky that had begun to melt into soft lilacs and silver-grey. Long shadows stretched across the frozen ground in the late afternoon sun, and the air was scented with snow—fresh, crisp, and almost sweet.
The sound of Haruka's words still lingered like a song not yet faded away. She cradled the hot cup of tea in the palms of her hands, but her fingers trembled, barely perceptibly. Not from cold. From something internal.
Kaito had been silent for a while.
His eyes were on the lake, but Haruka knew he wasn't looking at it anymore.
"Sorry if that was too much," she said, attempting to laugh it off. Instead, her voice broke.
Kaito finally looked at her. Something glimmered behind his reserved expression—not shock, not confusion—but something softer. A recognition so profound it hurt.
"You… always carried a folded drawing in your pencil case," Kaito said softly. "A white rabbit with a balloon. You said you were saving it to give to someone who made you feel safe."
Haruka's breath caught.
"I remember," she whispered. "No one else knew about that. Not even my mom."
Kaito leaned in, not releasing her gaze. "You would hide under my grandma's kotatsu when you were scared. You'd cry in my lap, and I'd steal you melon bread from her hidden stash to make you smile."
Her eyes grew misty.
"And you always gave me the crusts," she whispered, voice trembling.
"I never liked the crusts," Kaito smiled.
"But I thought you did," Haruka tearfully laughed. "I thought you were being nice…"
"I was being nice," he admitted. "But also, I didn't want you to think you were the only one being punished."
Haruka's mouth opened, but the words would not come. Her throat tightened.
Kaito's voice dropped to a whisper. "The sticky note you left behind… I kept it with me for years. Even after we moved. Even after I had forgotten your name—I couldn't recall your face."
Haruka looked at him. Her eyes teared up, but she didn't look away.
Kaito's voice was even softer. "I couldn't help but wonder. Who she was. The girl who brought warmth during the coldest time of my life. I wrote her notes, hoping that maybe, just maybe, someday she'd read them."
Tears spilled over.
Without saying a word, Haruka set her cup down and leaned forward.
And then she hugged Kaito.
Tightly.
As if something in her heart had finally found its missing shape.
Kaito stiffened for a second, caught off guard. But then he relaxed, the corners of his lips twisting upwards in a slow, soft smile as he buried his cheek in her hair and closed his eyes.
His arms came up around her, pulling her in even closer. One hand cradled the back of her head. The other lightly touched her back, holding her there in that place—there, by the lake, where snow had long ago begun it all.
Haruka cried into his shoulder, quietly at first, and then sobbing. Her whole body trembled under the weight of everything they never said.
Everything they didn't know they'd been carrying.
It was you," she wept. "It was really you."
"Yeah," Kaito whispered. "And it was you."
The sky went indigo as time flowed gently by. Wind rustled through bare trees, and in the distance, the first delicate flakes of snow began falling again.
Their breaths misted the cold air, but warm was the air between them.
Safe.
Filled with something unspoken that didn't need saying.
And then—Kaito, a sly undertone to his voice, broke the silence.
"So," he said casually, his chin on her shoulder, "you still wanna marry me?"
Haruka laughed shakily through her tears, pulling back just far enough to look at him. Her face was red from crying, eyes still wet, but her smile was soft and sincere.
"I was eight," she said. "You can't hold that against me."
"I've been holding onto that note for ten years," he said, grinning. "Feels like a binding contract."
Haruka rolled her eyes and let out a small, delighted snort. "You're impossible."
"And yet you're still hugging me," he teased, wrapping his arms tighter around her.
She rested her forehead against his chest, her laughter fading into something quiet again. The snow kept falling, gentle and unhurried, collecting on their shoulders and hair.
Neither of them moved.
The lake reflected the darkening heavens, and their shadows stood together, motionless, cut into the moment.
There was still so much to say. So many memories to unfold. So many years they'd wasted.
But none of that mattered now.
Here, in the land where the snow fell, they had rediscovered each other.
Not as strangers.
Not as shattered remnants.
But to two people who had long ago made a wordless promise under the falling snow—
—and who, contrary to all likelihood, had kept it—
Fade to white as snow deepens, the lake a reflection of winter and reunion.