The final school bell had long faded, and Takeshiro Town was beginning to exhale the sigh of a Friday evening.
The cobblestone roads were bathed in golden light, painted with long shadows that stretched like the arms of old spirits reaching across the town. Rooftops shimmered amber and rose under the lowering sun, and the windows caught its glow like flickering lanterns lit from within. The air smelled faintly of earth, blossoms, and baked bread.
Aya and Ethan walked side by side, schoolbags swaying with each step. Their pace was unhurried now—less like children racing home and more like two people savoring a moment they didn't want to end.
They didn't speak at first. Their steps filled the silence gently, weaving between familiar stones on the road as the hum of distant conversations drifted through open windows. The town seemed to breathe with them—slow and content.
As they turned a familiar corner, Ren's Bakery came into view first. Its warm light still spilled out onto the street through fogged-up glass. The "Open" sign had been flipped, but the scent of cinnamon, brown sugar, and roasted grains still lingered like a final whisper, curling from the eaves and settling deep into memory.
Ren himself wasn't outside this time, but his booming laughter could be faintly heard from within—probably sharing a drink with a customer or telling one of his exaggerated stories. Aya smiled at the sound, like it was part of a tune she'd grown up hearing. It reminded her of snowball fights in winter and burnt cookies he let her decorate anyway.
Ethan's eyes, however, caught something quieter: a still-warm loaf of bread left cooling on the windowsill, its crust golden and glistening with a light sheen of butter. The steam curling off it swirled up like a ghost, rising into the air and vanishing.
There was something comforting about it. But also… haunting. Like the town was trying to stay exactly the same—even as something beneath the surface began to stir.
They moved past the bakery and into the quieter stretch of road that curved gently, opening up into a lane flanked by wooden shops and sleeping vines. There was a stillness here, a hush that felt sacred.
Ms. Suki's Florist Shop stood tucked under the wide arms of an old gingko tree, its leaves rustling with a dry whisper in the cooling breeze. The white fence—curled slightly at the corners—cast delicate, crooked bars of shadow on the brick path like the ribs of a resting dragon.
The shop had closed for the evening. The glass door reflected the last strands of light, and the little chalkboard sign now read "See you tomorrow!" in Ms. Suki's looping, flowery handwriting.
And there, just beyond the fence, stood the tulips.
Aya paused.
The flowerbed had always been her favorite part of the walk home. And now, under the rich hues of twilight, it looked like a dream from a storybook. The tulips had already begun to close their petals for the night—some bowed in a sleepy nod, others still cupping the sun's last light like a farewell drink.
They looked as if they were sinking with the sun itself, the pinks and oranges of their petals blending with the sky. The garden pulsed gently with color—sleepy, tender, and quietly fading.
Aya reached through the fence, gently brushing one tulip with her fingers. "They're going to sleep," she whispered.
Ethan stopped beside her. "They'll bloom again tomorrow."
A pause.
She nodded slowly, still touching the flower like it was something precious.
The sky above was a painting—lavender bleeding into deepening blue, streaked with burnt gold, peach, and a hint of crimson. The sun hovered just above the western hills like it, too, couldn't quite say goodbye. Tiny glowing lanterns flickered to life one by one along porches and balconies, their light not yet bright enough to chase the sun, but warm enough to welcome its departure.
The wooden buildings around them glowed like old bones holding onto their warmth. The wind rustled through chimes that hung from eaves, their soft notes like lullabies from a forgotten era.
Birds chirped lazily as they returned to nests tucked beneath rooftops. Somewhere nearby, a cicada began its rhythmic cry—lonely, persistent, and low.
Aya let her hand fall from the flower and glanced sideways at Ethan. The shadows on his face had grown longer, but his expression stayed calm, unreadable—like always. She loved that about him. And hated it too.
She tugged gently at his sleeve. "Ethan?"
"Yeah?"
"It's Friday."
He gave her a small smile. "It is."
"I don't know... I always like Fridays," she said. "It feels like we have the whole world ahead of us. Two days where we can be anywhere, do anything. But sometimes, I get scared."
He tilted his head slightly. "Scared?"
Aya's voice became almost a breath. "That one day, you won't be here. That you'll leave, and I won't be able to make you laugh anymore."
Ethan stopped walking.
The street around them quieted.
He looked at her—really looked at her. Her black hair was softly lit by the sky, her wide brown eyes reflecting that fading gold. There was so much warmth in her, and a flicker of something else—worry she didn't know how to carry yet.
"You'll always make me laugh," he said.
Aya blinked, the corners of her eyes shiny—but she smiled, gentle and brave.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Their fingers brushed. Neither said anything more. But the silence between them was warm.
They walked again—slower now—as the world began to tuck itself in for the night. The lamps flickered brighter. Somewhere, a dog barked. Distant voices called across rooftops. A curtain fluttered. And the breeze shifted.
Even though the crow from earlier was nowhere to be seen… even though the roads were just as familiar as always… Ethan still felt something.
Like a thread being pulled tight at the edge of his mind.
But he pushed it away.
It was Friday.
And for now, everything was okay.