Spring rain came in sheets, flattening the blossoms against the ground. The inn's corridors smelled of damp wood and tea leaves. Hana woke to Ren's frantic tapping at her door. "You have to see this," he panted, rain dripping from his hair.
Outside, the grove lay in ruin: branches snapped, petals strewn in sodden drifts. The old cherry tree—centerpiece of their nightly sessions—was split nearly in two. Ren knelt, cupping a blossom in his palm. "It can't recover," he whispered. "It's too damaged."
Hana's heart clenched. Everything they'd built—their words, their art—felt equally fragile. She crouched beside him. "Maybe it needs time. And care." She touched his shoulder. "We're like this tree, Ren. We've been bent by storms, but we can still heal."
He studied her face, rain washing awareness in his eyes. "I've been afraid to love, Hana. Afraid I'll lose you as I lost her."
Tears welled in Hana's eyes. "I've been afraid too—afraid you'll see my failures and turn away."
They sat in silence until the rain softened. Ren dipped his brush into murky water and sketched the broken tree trunk—then drew two figures beneath it, hand in hand, facing the moon. He handed her the sketch. "I don't want echoes," he said. "I want now."
Hana smiled through tears. "Me too."
Under the fractured blossoms, they vowed to tend the tree and each other, to choose love over fear.