The cicadas sang loudly that summer, their cries echoing across the quiet neighborhood. In the old garden behind the Shimizu household, three boys sat huddled together under the shade of a persimmon tree.

Hajun and Haru, the golden-haired twins, were impossible to mistake for anyone else. Identical in nearly every way—their pale hair, sharp features, and mischievous smiles—they shone like the sun itself. Yet even the brightest light needed something to anchor it, and that anchor was the boy who sat between them.

Akihiro.

With soft black hair that glistened like midnight, Akihiro’s presence contrasted beautifully against the twins. He was quiet, thoughtful, and often hesitant to join in their wild adventures, but to Hajun and Haru, he was irreplaceable.

“Don’t forget,” Hajun whispered, leaning close, his golden eyes burning with determination. “We promised to stay together forever.”

“Forever,” Haru echoed, his voice softer but just as insistent. He clasped Akihiro’s hand tightly, as if to seal the vow.

Akihiro blinked at them, wide-eyed. “But… forever is a long time.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Hajun said, grinning. “When we grow up, we’ll always come back here. The three of us. No matter what happens.”

The afternoon breeze stirred the red curtain of flowers growing along the garden fence. Petals fell around them like blessings from the sky. Akihiro wanted to believe in their words, in the warmth of their hands holding his. He smiled shyly, the corners of his lips trembling.

“...Then promise me you won’t forget,” he said softly.

Two voices answered at once. “We promise.”

—

The summer days were filled with laughter and childish mischief. The twins taught Akihiro how to climb trees, even when he was afraid of heights. They ran barefoot through the fields, chasing fireflies until the moon rose. And at night, when the stars spread endlessly across the sky, they lay side by side, whispering dreams of the future.

But even happiness has its shadows.

One evening, as the three sat on the wooden porch eating slices of watermelon, Hajun suddenly grew quiet. His smile faded.

“We… might have to leave soon,” he admitted.

Akihiro’s small hands froze around his slice. “Leave? Where?”

“Korea,” Haru answered hesitantly, glancing at his twin. “Father says we have to go back. He has business there.”

Akihiro’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. The thought of waking up without them, of sitting alone under the persimmon tree, terrified him. He shook his head. “No… you can’t go. You promised we’d stay together!”

Hajun reached out and cupped his cheek gently, wiping the juice from his lips with his thumb. “We’ll come back. Even if it takes years, we’ll find you again.”

Haru, quieter and more hesitant, pressed his forehead against Akihiro’s shoulder. “Even if the world changes… we’ll always find our way back to you.”

Tears welled in Akihiro’s eyes, blurring the image of the two golden-haired boys before him. He wanted to shout, to beg them to stay, but his voice was trapped in his throat.

That night, the three of them sat in silence beneath the persimmon tree. Fireflies blinked softly in the air, like tiny stars trying to comfort them. And though they said nothing more, each of them carved the memory deep into their hearts.

The day of parting came too quickly.

As the twins boarded the car that would take them to the port, Akihiro chased after them, breathless. His small hands pressed against the window, his tear-streaked face desperate.

“Hajun! Haru! Don’t forget! You promised!”

Through the glass, Hajun smiled faintly, raising his hand in a vow. Haru’s eyes glistened, lips pressed tight as if he couldn’t bear to say goodbye.

The car pulled away. The sound of Akihiro’s cries faded into the distance.

And just like that, the golden light vanished from his world, leaving only the memory of a summer filled with promises.

— To be continued.

The sound of cicadas was the same. Their cries rose in waves, echoing across the summer air as if no time had passed. Yet, twenty years had gone by.

Hajun and Haru stood side by side at the train station in Japan, golden hair catching the afternoon sunlight. Though their faces had matured into striking men—sharp jawlines, tall frames, confidence radiating from them—their eyes carried the same restless fire as when they were boys.

“It feels… strange,” Haru murmured, gazing out at the familiar streets beyond the platform. “Like nothing’s changed, but everything has.”

Hajun’s lips curled into a faint smile. “We swore, remember? No matter what, we’d come back. And here we are.”

The train pulled away behind them, leaving only silence and the smell of warm asphalt. For a moment, both brothers were still, as if listening for something—the faint laughter of a black-haired boy from long ago, running barefoot down the path.

“Akihiro…” Hajun said quietly, his voice heavy with both longing and certainty. “He has to be here.”

Haru nodded, though his expression was troubled. “It’s been twenty years. Do you think he’ll even recognize us? Do you think he still remembers?”

Hajun’s golden eyes sharpened. “He has to. Because we never forgot.”

They left the station and began walking through the town. It was exactly as they remembered—the narrow streets lined with hydrangeas, the smell of grilled fish wafting from small shops, the faint chatter of neighbors greeting one another. Yet the twins felt the weight of time pressing down on them. Every corner reminded them of the boy they had once left behind.

They passed the persimmon tree.

It stood tall, branches heavy with fruit, just as it had that summer when three boys had carved a promise into the bark. Haru reached out, fingertips brushing over the faint scars still etched into the wood—three childish names scratched side by side.

He swallowed hard. “It’s still here.”

Hajun stepped closer, tracing the letters with his thumb. “Then so is he.”

The wind stirred, carrying petals from a nearby garden. For a brief second, it felt as if the world had folded in on itself, dragging them back to the night they had sworn to return.

Their search began quietly. They asked the neighbors, wandered familiar streets, and returned to the places where memories lingered. Some faces remembered them faintly—“Ah, the Shimizu twins, weren’t you the boys who moved away?”—but when they asked about Akihiro, the answers grew vague.

“He still lives around here, I think.”

“He was always a quiet child, wasn’t he?”

“I saw him not too long ago, though he seemed… different.”

Different. The word clung to Haru like a shadow.

By the time evening fell, the twins found themselves in front of a small flower shop tucked between two narrow alleys. Its wooden sign was faded, but the front was lined with roses of every shade—deep crimson, soft ivory, and striking midnight blue.

Hajun’s breath caught. “Do you remember? He used to say he liked flowers more than anything.”

Before Haru could answer, the bell above the door chimed.

A man stepped out, carrying a crate of freshly cut roses. His black hair, though shorter than before, still glistened like midnight under the fading sunlight. His features had sharpened with age, no longer the round softness of childhood but defined, beautiful, and tinged with something sorrowful. A faint scar ran along his cheek, as if carved by time itself.

Akihiro.

The crate wobbled slightly in his hands as his gaze lifted—and froze.

For the first time in twenty years, his dark eyes met the golden flames of the twins.

Hajun took a step forward, voice trembling yet steady. “Akihiro… we’ve come back.”

The roses slipped from Akihiro’s grip, scattering across the pavement like the petals of their long-forgotten promise.

The roses scattered across the ground, rolling against the pavement in a splash of crimson and white. Akihiro stared, frozen, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat.

Hajun. Haru.

Names he had not spoken aloud in twenty years.

The two figures before him were taller now, their boyish edges sharpened into the striking lines of men. Golden hair, identical smiles, identical flames in their eyes—just as dazzling as he remembered. For a heartbeat, time folded in on itself, and he was once again that trembling boy clutching their hands beneath the persimmon tree.

But then the moment passed, and reality returned with the weight of scars.

His hands trembled as he bent down to gather the roses, hiding his face behind the dark fall of his hair. “...Why are you here?” His voice was low, rough from disuse.

Haru stepped forward, hesitant but hopeful. “We told you… we’d come back.”

Akihiro flinched. That word—promise. It burned like salt against an open wound. He tightened his grip on the crate, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Twenty years,” he whispered. “Do you know how long that is?”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint cry of cicadas in the distance.

Akihiro had waited. At first, as a boy, he had believed with all his heart that they would return. Every summer, he ran to the persimmon tree, waiting until sunset, hoping to see two golden heads racing down the path. When autumn came and they still hadn’t appeared, he told himself next year. Then the year after.

But the seasons turned, one after another, and the laughter of the twins faded into nothing more than memory.

By the time he grew older, reality had sunk its claws into him. His parents’ flower shop fell on hard times, debts piled high, and with them came the cruel hands of men who showed no mercy. The scar on his cheek was only one of many marks left behind.

And yet, even through the loneliness, even through the nights of despair, he could never bring himself to forget their faces. That was the cruelest part.

Now, standing before them, Akihiro felt his heart torn between longing and fury.

“You should have stayed gone,” he said, his voice sharp, though his hands trembled around the crate. “Why now? After all this time?”

Hajun’s gaze was unyielding, golden eyes burning with the same fire as when he was a child. “Because we never forgot you. Not for a single day.”

Akihiro’s chest tightened. Lies. They had lived full lives abroad, surrounded by wealth and privilege, while he had been left here, drowning in solitude. How could they possibly understand the weight of waiting?

And yet—his heart betrayed him. The sight of them stirred something he thought long buried. That warmth. That light. The unshakable bond of their childhood.

Haru, gentler than his twin, took a cautious step closer. His voice was soft, almost pleading. “Aki… we came back because we still…” His words faltered, but his eyes said what his lips could not.

Akihiro’s grip slipped. A single rose fell from the crate, landing at Haru’s feet.

He turned away abruptly, hiding the heat rising in his chest, the tears threatening to fall. “The past doesn’t matter anymore. You should leave.”

But even as he said it, his voice cracked faintly, betraying him.

Behind him, Hajun’s voice cut through the silence, firm and resolute. “No. We’re not leaving. Not again.”

The cicadas screamed louder, the summer air thick with the weight of twenty years.

For the first time in decades, the three of them stood together once more. And though Akihiro’s words pushed them away, deep down he knew—this reunion was only the beginning of something far more dangerous than the promises of childhood.