Chapter 2: Seven Winters Later

Seven years is a long time.

London became university. University became boardrooms.

I learned contracts. I learned languages. I learned how to sit still while people talked about me like I wasn’t there.

I did not learn how to stop looking for gold hair in a crowd.

Bonten grew without me.

Izana’s name was in every article. “Kurokawa heir.” “Phantom of Tokyo.”

I stopped reading them after a while.

I was 19 when my father called me home.

“Y/N Holdings needs you,” he said.

So I came back.

---

The estate was exactly the same.

Cherry blossoms. Stone paths. The garden we used to hide in when we were kids.

The party inside was loud. Speeches. Cameras. “The young master has returned.”

I slipped out the back door ten minutes in.

The garden was quiet.

Cold air. The pond was frozen at the edges.

I sat on the old bench. The one with the carving we made when we were 10.

_I + I_

Stupid.

Footsteps on gravel.

I didn’t look up.

“Still running away from parties?”

That voice.

Deeper now. Slower. But I’d know it anywhere.

I turned.

Izana.

Black coat. No tie. Hands in his pockets. Hair longer, falling over one eye.

He’d filled out. Taller. Broader. The boy was gone.

But the eyes were the same. Gold. Sharp. Tired.

He looked at me like it had only been a week.

Seven years.

“You came,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. It was relief.

“I had to,” I answered. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. “The company.”

He walked closer. Stopped a few feet from the bench. Like he wasn’t sure if I’d move if he got too close.

“You got taller.”

A pause.

“Still small.”

I almost laughed. “You too.”

“I didn’t get small.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

Silence. The kind we used to be good at.

Then he sat. Not next to me. On the other end of the bench. Leaving space.

Respecting it.

That was new.

“The garden’s still here,” he said, looking at the pond.

“You still come here?”

“Every time I’m in the city.”

He picked up a dead leaf. Crushed it. “Thought maybe you’d come back to it.”

My chest hurt. “You didn’t call.”

“You didn’t write.”

“I tore the letters up.”

“I know.”

I looked at him. “How?”

“Because I did the same thing.”

Oh.

He finally looked at me. Really looked.

“You’re not a kid anymore,” he said quietly.

“No.”

“Good.”

Another pause.

“Because I’m not good at being a kid anymore either.”

The wind moved through the trees.

He reached out, slow, and brushed a petal off my shoulder. His fingers barely touched me. Cold.

“You’re still pale,” he murmured. “Still quiet.”

He dropped his hand.

“Still mine.”

It wasn’t a demand this time. It was just... fact.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

“White moon,” he said, so soft I almost didn’t hear it.

The nickname from when we were 9.

Inside, the music started again. Someone was calling my name.

Izana stood up first.

“Come inside when you’re ready,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

He didn’t tell me to follow.

He didn’t grab my hand.

He just walked back toward the house.

And for the first time in seven years, I wanted to follow him without being told.

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