Chapter 7: Snow Between Our Hands

By the time the train reached her town, the snow had softened into a steady drift. The platform was almost empty—just a few dim lights, the quiet hum of the heater, and flakes settling on the cold metal benches.

My breath fogged in front of me as I stepped out.

The air felt sharper here.

Quieter.

Like the town was holding its breath too.

I scanned the platform once.

Twice.

And then I saw her.

Hanami stood near the vending machine, hands tucked into her coat sleeves, her scarf pulled up close to her cheeks. She looked like she had been waiting for a long time—long enough that her boots were dusted white.

When our eyes met, she froze for a second.

Then she smiled.

Not a big smile.

Not a loud one.

Just the soft, trembling kind that reaches you slowly and hits deeper than anything else.

I walked toward her, my footsteps crunching on the fresh snow. She didn’t move—not toward me, not away. She watched me the whole time, eyes warmer than I remembered.

When I finally stopped in front of her, I realized I was out of breath.

Not from the walk.

From everything else.

“You really came,” she said.

Her voice was quiet but steady.

Like she had rehearsed the words over and over.

“I wanted to,” I said. “I… needed to.”

A small breath escaped her lips, something between a relief and a laugh. She tightened her scarf as if trying to hide how much those words meant.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Snow drifted lazily around us, settling in her hair, catching on her eyelashes. She looked like she stepped out of one of her own sketches—soft lines, quiet expression, so gentle that I felt something inside me shift again.

“Was the ride long?” she asked.

“Longer than I expected.” I smiled a little. “Snow kept delaying everything.”

She nodded. “Winter does that. Slows things down.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But I still got here.”

Her gaze flickered upward, meeting mine for a beat longer than usual. “I’m glad.”

We didn’t move from where we stood. The world felt strangely small—just this station, this cold air, this space between us that felt warm despite everything.

“I thought maybe…” she began, then stopped.

“Maybe?” I prompted.

She looked down at her hands. “Maybe you wouldn’t come. Or maybe you’d regret it when you got here.”

“I don’t regret it,” I said immediately. “Not even for a second.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly.

She took a small step closer. Not much. Just enough that the space between us shrank to something tender.

“I missed talking to you,” she said.

“I missed everything,” I answered, then corrected myself. “I mean—you. I missed you.”

Her breath hitched lightly. Not dramatic. Just real.

“I kept wishing you could see the things I was drawing,” she whispered. “Even the little things. Especially the little things.”

I wanted to tell her I felt the same.

That every night when I watched the stars, I wished she were next to me.

That every letter she sent was a piece of her I held onto too tightly.

But the words caught in my throat.

Instead, something simpler came out.

“It still feels better when you’re here.”

She looked up, eyes wide in the soft station lights. Snowflakes gathered at the corner of her hair. She didn’t brush them away.

“I feel the same,” she murmured.

A quiet wind passed through the platform. It lifted a swirl of snow between us, almost like the air wanted to touch her when I couldn’t.

Her hand moved slightly at her side.

Not reaching for mine.

But not pulling away either.

I lifted my hand slowly.

Not to grab hers.

Just to let it hover close enough that the warmth between us felt real.

She noticed. Her fingers shifted—hesitant at first, then steady—drifting toward mine until the tips of our gloves brushed.

That tiny touch sent a pulse of warmth through the cold evening.

We didn’t hold hands.

We didn’t need to.

The space between our fingers felt full enough.

“This doesn’t feel like a dream, right?” she asked softly.

“No,” I said. “But I kind of wish it was, just so I could relive it again.”

She laughed under her breath, the kind of laugh she only made when she was truly happy.

For a few minutes, we just stood there, watching the snow fall on the empty tracks. There were no trains arriving. No announcements. No crowds.

Just her.

Just me.

Just the soft winter night settling around us.

It was the closest we had ever been.

Not because of distance.

Not because of touching hands.

But because we finally stood in the same moment again—no paper, no ink, no waiting.

When she finally spoke, her voice trembled gently.

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

I answered without thinking.

“I’d come again. As many times as it takes.”

Her eyes softened, holding something that felt like both a promise and a wish.

And between our hands, the snow kept falling.