花の思い出 — Hana no Omoide

Five years later.

The small coastal town woke slowly under the morning sun.
Metal shutters groaned, awnings flapped in the sea breeze.
The air smelled of salt, fresh bread, and wet ropes.
Gulls cried in circles above the harbor.

On a quiet street, away from the market, a little shop was opening its doors.
A carved wooden sign swayed gently in the marine wind:

Hana no Omoide (花の思い出)
The Memory of Flowers.

Yuki unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The air was filled with the scent of damp soil, greenery, and fresh petals.
Buckets of flowers lined the walls — roses, peonies, chrysanthemums, and above all… white lilies.

She didn’t know why she always ordered so many. They sold poorly.
But every time she saw them at the wholesaler’s, something deep inside her whispered:
Those ones. Take those.
So she did.

Yuki was twenty-one now.
Her hair a little longer, tied low.
A plain dress beneath a work apron.

She had never become a miko.

Five years earlier, she had returned from the shrine confused, exhausted, with a hole in her memory.
Her mentor had questioned her.

“You remember nothing?”
“No. Just… nothing.”

The priestess had simply dismissed her — not angry, only coldly disappointed, which hurt far more than any rebuke.

Yuki had wandered for months, lost between seasons.
Then one day she stopped in front of a flower shop.

A scent had drawn her in — soft yet familiar.

Flowers.

She hadn’t known why, but they felt important. Essential.

She began working there.
And in time, she opened her own shop — here, in this little seaside town where no one knew her past.

She had named it Hana no Omoide.
The name had come to her naturally, as if whispered by the wind.

The Memory of Flowers.

The memory of what? She didn’t know.
But it felt right.

***

That morning, she was arranging a vase of white lilies near the window when the bell above the door chimed.

“Welcome in !” she called without turning around.

No reply.

She looked up.

A woman stood in the doorway — perhaps twenty-two, with reddish hair tied in a loose bun, wearing a cream-colored summer kimono and a red obi.
And eyes — golden eyes — like sunlit honey.

The salty air drifted in with her.
The bell vibrated a second time, then silence fell again.

The woman stepped inside, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor, her gaze grazing every bouquet, every petal.
Then she stopped before the white lilies.

“May I help you ?” Yuki asked gently.

The woman didn’t answer.
She reached out and touched one of the flowers, fingertips brushing a petal.

“Hana no Omoide,” she murmured.

Yuki tilted her head. “That’s the name of my shop, yes.”

Their eyes met.

In those golden eyes was something — a light both sad and grateful.

“Why that name?” the woman asked, her voice low and husky.
“I… don’t know. It just came to me. It sounded right.”
“Hana,” the woman repeated softly. “It means flowers… or a name.”
Yuki smiled faintly. “Maybe both. I like that ambiguity.”

A long silence. The wind stirred the curtains.

Something unseen vibrated between them — like the faint echo of a memory.

“My name is Akari,” the woman said finally.
“Yuki,” she replied without thinking.

Akari flinched almost imperceptibly.
“Yuki…” she repeated, letting the name linger on her tongue. “It suits you.”

Yuki looked away, uneasy for reasons she couldn’t explain.

“Were you looking for a particular flower?”
“Yes. Those ones.”
“The white lilies?”
“Yes.” Akari smiled sadly. “For someone important.”

Yuki felt her chest tighten.

“Someone you lost?”
“Yes and no. It’s… complicated.”
“I understand,” Yuki said, without knowing why she was so sure.

She prepared a bouquet of white lilies, choosing the loveliest ones, arranging them with care.
Her hands moved by habit, but her mind was elsewhere.

When she handed the bouquet over, their fingers brushed.

A spark.

Not painful — alive.
A pulse of warmth that rose along her arm, spreading to her chest and her heart.

Yuki clutched her chest. Her heart was racing.

“What was that?”

Akari stared at her own hand — the one that had touched Yuki.

“I don’t know.”

Liar, a small voice inside Yuki whispered. She knows.

But Yuki said nothing.

Akari held the bouquet close. “Thank you.”

She took a step toward the door, then stopped on the threshold.
The wind caught a lock of her red hair, lifting it before her eyes.

Akari turned back.
Their eyes met one last time.

A smile. Nothing else.

Then she left, and the bell chimed softly behind her.

Yuki stood frozen, heart pounding, hands trembling.

What was that? Who was she?

Her name, her voice, her eyes — everything about her resonated like a melody half remembered.

Yuki raised a hand to her temple.
She felt it again — that familiar emptiness, that void in her mind she had never managed to fill.

She looked up at the sign above the window.

The Memory of Flowers.
Or perhaps… The Memory of Hana.

Through the glass, she watched Akari walking away, the bouquet of white lilies pressed to her heart.

She didn’t know why, but tears welled in her eyes.

Who are you ?

But Akari disappeared around the corner, and the moment was gone.

***

Out in the street, Akari walked slowly, the bouquet clutched tight against her.
The salt wind mingled with her tears.

She had seen Yuki. Spoken to her.

And Yuki remembered nothing.

Of course — that was the price of the ritual. The gods’ cruel trap.

He who breaks oblivion shall inherit it.

Akari remembered everything — every moment at the shrine, every smile, every word, the trap itself.
Yuki had lost it all.

It’s not fair, Akari thought.

She held the bouquet tighter.

But at least she looks happy. She’s living. She’s found her path.

Akari stopped in a small square overlooking the sea.
She sat on a bench and gazed at the horizon.

She lifted the bouquet toward the sky like an offering.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Yuki. Thank you, Hana. For loving me. Even if it was brief.”

The sea breeze rose gently, lifting her red hair.

Hana no Omoide.

Akari smiled through her tears.

Even without her memories, Yuki had kept something — the name, the white lilies.
As if a part of her, buried deep within, still remembered.

The heart remembers, even when the mind forgets.

Maybe one day she would remember.
Or maybe not.

But it didn’t matter.

Because love, Akari thought, doesn’t need memory to exist.
It survives in our gestures, in the names we give things, in the choices we make without knowing why.

She stood and looked one last time toward the flower shop — now out of sight.

“Goodbye, Yuki. Be happy,” she murmured.

The sea wind carried the words away like petals.