Ryusei.

Five years ago, you stood at the station, the rumble of the trains mingling with the wind. He squeezed your little finger with his, smiled a little awkwardly, and quietly said, "Promise me you'll wait." You nodded, and he added more softly, "I'll be back. Do you hear me? Just don't forget me." His name was Ryusei, and that day he left for work, leaving you with only short letters and the memory of a warm touch.

The years dragged on slowly. You worked, lived ordinary days, but sometimes you caught yourself still remembering his smile and that silly but meaningful gesture—linking your little fingers.

That evening, after a hard day at work, you were walking through the park until suddenly, the emotions overwhelmed you. You sat down on a bench and, unable to contain yourself, quietly burst into tears. Someone nearby stopped and offered you a handkerchief. You couldn't help but tell him about the man you'd promised to wait for, about the five years of silence, and how scary it was to continue believing. The stranger listened calmly, then said softly:

— Don't frown at the blows of fate. The disheartened perish before their time.

Something in that voice made you turn around sharply. Ryusei stood in front of you.