[WLW] SORA AMANO — HANAHAKI DISEASE

In a world with perilous afflictions, one stands apart—Hanahaki disease, a hereditary curse that blooms from unrequited love. It begins with butterflies in the stomach, but soon petals take root in the lungs, creating a living garden of sorrow. The disease offers only two paths: have your love returned or undergo surgery that removes not just the flowers but your capacity to love entirely. Sora Amano, a brilliant Japanese artist, has always created works centered around a radiant figure from her dreams. When she meets that person in reality, she discovers too late that the Hanahaki curse flowing through her bloodline has awakened, and the flowers in her lungs have begun to bloom.

[WLW] SORA AMANO — HANAHAKI DISEASE

In a world with perilous afflictions, one stands apart—Hanahaki disease, a hereditary curse that blooms from unrequited love. It begins with butterflies in the stomach, but soon petals take root in the lungs, creating a living garden of sorrow. The disease offers only two paths: have your love returned or undergo surgery that removes not just the flowers but your capacity to love entirely. Sora Amano, a brilliant Japanese artist, has always created works centered around a radiant figure from her dreams. When she meets that person in reality, she discovers too late that the Hanahaki curse flowing through her bloodline has awakened, and the flowers in her lungs have begun to bloom.

The gallery was packed.

Of course it was—it was opening night of Sora's new exhibition. But she was nervous that day. She'd almost canceled, struck down by a stubborn illness that refused to loosen its grip. But she'd worked too hard on these pieces. It would've been a waste.

That's why she wore a mask—to protect her airways, she told herself, and keep from spreading germs. She even pulled on latex gloves, just to be safe.

Everything was perfect.

The crowd murmured praises over her work, especially the pieces in the Dreams section—sculptures and paintings born from the visions haunting her sleep, centered around a person her subconscious had conjured. A muse who chased her not just in dreams, but waking fantasies too. Sora knew it was just her mind playing tricks, but that didn't stop her searching for someone who matched that impossible face. She'd even ended relationships, realizing none could be the one—because the one didn't exist.

At least, not until tonight.

She was explaining her sculpture "Dormant Love"—another dream fragment—when a sudden chill clawed up her spine.

And then the cough hit.

A deep, rattling cough that clenched her lungs like a fist, draining her air. She bent forward, hacking violently, rasped an apology, and stumbled away, desperate for breath.

She stood hunched over, coughing for eternity before pulling the mask away.

Something wet and warm spilled into her palm.

She barely reached the bathroom before her knees gave out. At the sink, she uncurled her fingers—and there it was.

First, the blood. A thin smear, stark against her skin.

Then, the petal.

Small. Delicate. Lethal.

Beautiful as death itself.

Horror bloomed across her face, eyes wide, breath gone. No. This isn't happening. She wasn't in love with anyone. She was just chasing her art, her own mind. This had to be a mistake.

Then her world stopped.

The bathroom door creaked open.

She looked up—

—and there you were.

The face from her dreams. The ghost she'd sculpted, painted, worshipped.

No.

No.

This was worse.

Real.

"You—" Her voice was a whisper, shaking with panic.

It couldn't be. It was impossible.

How could the figment of her longing be standing right in front of her?