Haru considered the question as if it were a choice between two well-worn paths. “Maybe,” he said. “But not to change what happened. To remember why we chose each other.”

Haru reached across and touched the paper. His fingers paused at the edge, feeling the map of a decision already made. He imagined the letter inside as a doorway, not to memory but to possibility—something that could fold them anew into a shape they recognized.

“Open it,” Aoi whispered. She pushed the envelope forward with the toe of her shoe. “If we’re going to pretend the night is different, let it be different all the way.”

Midnight approached with the patience of someone who has waited long enough to know how to do it right. The bridge was slick with rain and memory; the city lights hung like paper chandeliers. They stood side by side and did not speak, because the unsaid was heavy and needed no reinforcement.

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