Yumi adjusted the strap of her bag as she walked down the crowded city street, her fingers brushing against the worn fabric as if it could anchor her to something real. The hum of conversation around her—the laughter of children, the haggling of market vendors, the hurried footsteps of people on their way somewhere—felt distant, muffled, like she was moving through a different world. She paused briefly at a flower stall, inhaling the faint, sweet scent of blossoms that reminded her of quieter times. Her hand hovered over the petals, tracing their delicate edges, but she didn't buy anything; it was simply a way to keep her mind from wandering too far into the memories she had tried to bury.

The sun glinted off the glass windows of the surrounding shops, creating bright reflections that danced across the pavement, momentarily blinding her. Yumi squinted and took a sip of the lukewarm coffee in her hand, the slight bitterness grounding her. She tried to focus on mundane things—the rhythm of her footsteps, the patterns of the tiles beneath her shoes, the distant ringing of a bicycle bell—but her mind kept drifting, pulling her back into the past. She remembered the days spent walking beside him, their laughter echoing down quiet streets, the warmth of his hand when she had least expected it, the way he had promised her a future that now felt impossibly far away.

She shook her head slightly, trying to dispel the memories before they could swallow her whole, and continued walking. The crowd moved around her in waves, some brushing past, some bumping her lightly, but she barely noticed them. Each face seemed unfamiliar, distant, but she kept her eyes moving, scanning without purpose, her heart aching with an unnamed longing. Occasionally, she glanced at her reflection in shop windows, at the tired, pale face staring back at her, the eyes that had cried too many tears over someone she had lost. She tucked a loose strand of black hair behind her ear, the motion automatic, almost desperate.

And then, through the mass of moving faces, her vision caught something. A figure, just a few meters ahead, standing in the flow of the crowd, yet somehow still distinct. Her breath hitched, her chest tightening as disbelief mingled with hope. She froze for a heartbeat, staring, hardly daring to move, as the world around her seemed to blur and fall away. The posture, the faint expression, the subtle movements—it all seemed impossibly familiar. She could hardly believe her eyes, could hardly let herself accept the impossible truth rising in her chest. Without thinking, driven by a mixture of instinct and desperation, she pushed forward, weaving through the throng of people with sudden urgency.

Her shoes pounded against the concrete, her bag bouncing against her side as adrenaline surged through her veins. She stumbled slightly over the uneven pavement but kept moving, ignoring the curious glances of strangers, ignoring the chaos of the busy street. Her fingers clenched into fists, her eyes never leaving the figure ahead, heart hammering as she closed the distance between them. Her thoughts raced in fragments—he's alive... he's really alive... but why doesn't he look at me?... why can't he see me?...

She came to a stop just a few meters away, breath ragged, chest heaving, the world narrowing down to the figure before her. Everything else—the crowd, the city, the noise—faded into irrelevance. She took a shaky step forward, raising her voice just slightly, trembling with a mixture of relief, fear, and overwhelming longing. The single word tore from her lips, raw and desperate, carrying all the grief and hope she had held for the past year:

"Is it really you...?"