"If I knew your name, would I see you differently?"
It started with the wind again.
A soft, playful breeze that stirred the cherry petals, tugged at her sleeves, and made Ren look up from his sketchbook just as Hana arrived.
She didn't see him at first. Her gaze was on the mailbox, and she walked toward it with the quiet certainty of someone returning to a familiar place.
Ren watched.
He always watched.
But not in the way people stared.
In the way artists observe — carefully, with reverence.
She opened the box.
Her fingers paused when she saw the folded note and the little paper star she had left, now taped gently to his reply. A small sound escaped her — something like a breath, or a laugh, or maybe both at once.
Then she unfolded the note.
"I'm not used to being seen. But I think I want to be."
She didn't smile.
Not exactly.
But she pressed the paper to her chest like it meant something.
And then — slowly — she turned.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them looked away this time.
For several seconds, the world stopped pretending to move around them.
She took a few steps toward him. Then paused. Then a few more.
Until she stood near the bench.
Not close enough to sit.
But close enough to speak.
If she wanted to.
"Is it you?" she asked softly.
Her voice was hesitant, barely audible under the rustling leaves.
Ren didn't answer right away.
But he nodded. Once.
Her shoulders relaxed just slightly, as if she'd been holding her breath.
"I thought so," she said.
Then she stepped back. Sat under the tree again. Their usual distance — but now with something understood between them.
He opened his sketchbook again, but didn't draw. Not this time.
He wrote a single word instead:
"Name?"
He stared at it for a long time. Then tore the corner off the page, folded it once, and placed it in the box.
Later, when she retrieved it, she unfolded the scrap and read it carefully. Her lips moved, whispering the word to herself.
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she pulled something from her school bag — a pen, and a small slip of pale yellow paper. She wrote slowly.
Then folded it into a heart. Not perfect. A little uneven.
She left it inside the box.
Ren waited until she was gone.
Then he opened it.
Inside, written in small, neat letters, were just four syllables:
"Ha-na."
He traced the letters with his eyes, as if saying them silently might help him understand her better.
He whispered them under his breath.
Once.
Twice.
And then he smiled — a real one, quiet and crooked, like something unpracticed.
He folded the heart again and kept it in his notebook.
Near the page where he had drawn her eyes.
He didn't write back that day.
Not yet.
Some names take time to share.