Episode 2

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.

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