"Some things you don't realize you're holding onto… until they're all that's left."
— Late Saturday Afternoon —
They were full now—on rice balls, laughter, and sunlight.
The path back from the shrine hill wound gently toward the heart of the town, lined with whispering trees and sunlit rooftops. The air smelled of pine, old stone, and the faint sweetness of ginger cookies—crumbs still clinging to Aya's sleeve.
Ethan walked quietly, eyes half-closed. Not tired. Just... still.
Beside him, Hana was humming an old tune. Kaito carried the empty basket. Aya skipped a few steps ahead, occasionally darting to pluck wildflowers or balance on the edge of the cobblestone walk.
Their picnic had lasted longer than expected. The grass had felt especially soft. Aya had drawn them all in her sketchbook—stick-figure warriors beneath a swirling sun—and Hana had laughed until tears lined her eyes.
And now, as the village gently folded around them again, everything felt soft. Golden. Like the closing lines of a favorite story.
Aya pointed suddenly. "Wait! Look!"
A small trinket stall had been set up on the edge of the town square. No sign. No shouting. Just a red cloth spread neatly over a low table, with necklaces, pins, and simple lockets resting like fallen stars across the surface.
Aya gasped and ran toward it. "This one opens! Ethan, look!"
The old man behind the stall wore a robe patched at the elbows and a small bead of charcoal around his neck. His smile came easy.
"Memory-lockets," he said. "For drawings, pressed petals… even photographs, if you have one. These two—" he gently lifted a matching pair, shaped like twin shells—"were carved together. For siblings."
Aya turned to Hana with hopeful eyes. "Please?"
Hana bent to look. The tag beneath them read simply:
ℜ70.
She hesitated.
"That's almost dinner," she murmured under her breath.
Kaito nudged her gently, not saying anything. Just the warmth of his shoulder against hers.
She smiled, gave the smallest nod.
Kaito reached into his pouch and pulled out one ironbloom coin and two clayleaf Rin—the deep gray and soft earthen colors almost vanishing into the old man's hand.
"Seventy Rin," he said with a bow. "May they hold only joy."
Aya clutched her locket like it held magic. Ethan took his more slowly, turning it once in his palm. It felt cool, small, and somehow... important.
They had just started walking again when they passed another canvas stall near the center of the square. The smell of ink and flashpowder lingered faintly.
A wide-faced woman under a tent waved a hand and called cheerfully,
"Instant portraits! 120 Rin! For families, friends, or lovers!"
Aya froze. "A photo! For the lockets!"
"I don't know…" Hana began.
"It's okay," Kaito said, already reaching for his pouch. "This one's on me."
He placed an ironbloom coin and a pair of clayleaf pieces on the table.
One hundred and twenty Rin.
The photographer adjusted her old crystal-lens camera, waving them into position. Aya tugged Ethan down beside her, Hana stood behind them, and Kaito placed a gentle hand on her back.
"Smile!" the woman called.
Click.
A pulse of light. Soft. Final.
They waited while the photo dried—Aya bouncing on her toes, Ethan standing strangely still. When it was handed to them, they all leaned in.
It was perfect.
Aya's lopsided grin. Kaito's relaxed warmth. Hana's calm and steady eyes. And Ethan—caught in the rare kind of smile that didn't need effort, just presence.
Aya clutched it to her chest. "We'll cut a tiny circle for the lockets!"
"Not yet," Hana said. "Let it dry."
Ethan didn't speak. He just slipped his copy into his pocket and left his hand there.
It was warm. The memory still fresh.
But something in his chest…
Felt like it had already passed.