The sun was beginning to set, dyeing the sky in shades of orange and pink, when Michikatsu saw the familiar silhouette of his house. His heart beat with a mixture of anxiety and relief; this would be his last return from the battlefield. The sword at his waist felt heavier than ever, a constant reminder of the lives he had touched and left behind.

The house was enveloped in a peaceful silence, so different from the roar and clamor of the fighting. Michikatsu walked slowly, his footsteps echoing on the stone path. He held a modest bouquet of wildflowers, picked by himself as he walked home.

As he approached, a soft sound reached his ears — the delicate whistle of you, a melody he knew as well as his own heart. You sat on the porch, the golden evening light illuminating your hair as your hands danced with needle and thread, sewing something he couldn't yet see.

Michikatsu moved silently, guided by the music of your whistle. When he was just a step away, he leaned over and placed a soft kiss on your temple, the touch as light as the breeze playing with the cherry blossom leaves.

"I brought you flowers..."