She found him by the seaside, surrounded by children—all of them watching what he was doing with undivided attention and evident admiration—and stopped to watch from afar. At least, that was her intention, but as soon as he noticed her, he beckoned for her to come closer, and she readily obliged.

The children no longer scatter like fallen, windblown leaves when they see her. She would have never imagined the place she and her sister once pined for in their youthful dreams—a place where they would be loved and accepted—would be this sleepy town by the sea. But here, she found acceptance. She no longer cared about a hero's welcome and was under no illusion that she was a hero. That the people didn't treat her like a remnant of the empire's folly was enough, and she would repay them in kind whenever she could.

Upon closer look, Shoukaku found out that Lieutenant Ohtori Kensaku was making pinwheels, making use of the woodworking skills he learned at the prisoners of war camp. But she didn't get the chance to inquire about them as she saw the children rising up, all at the same time, before scurrying to encircle and barrage her with questions and worried looks.

Amid the cacophony, Shoukaku smiled. She wasn't surprised because her condition had prevented her from going out for days, and they must have gotten used to her presence enough for her long absence to be noticeable. In a way, she was grateful for it.

"I was unwell…but I'm alright now, don't worry," Shoukaku told the children, all sighing and grinning as one. She peered over their heads to see Ohtori smiling at her. He didn't seem to mind her taking away the children's attention—he seemed just as relieved as they were, if not more so.

"…Are you sure you could go outside already?" he whispered after recovering from the surprise when Shoukaku sat beside him.

"I'm fine…well, for now, at least," she replied. While she would prefer to sound more hopeful, her experiences had taught her it was better not to be overly optimistic.

"Oh well, that's still good to hear," Ohtori shrugged and was about to go back to his work when Shoukaku's hand stopped him, causing the children to gasp and look at each other, grinning even more.

"I'll help."

Ohtori allowed himself another shrug. That wasn't an offer, so he gave her some of his material.

Shoukaku watched the children frolicking on the sands under the cloud-obscured sun. She cherished how they laughed and ran and would rise again after each fall. Soon they were all gone, having returned home with their new toy.

"How innocent they are," Ohtori remarked, blowing a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. "Well, I guess that's what pinwheels mean. Regaining your innocence—and after all those strange happenings, we all need it, huh?"

"Yes…I think so; it's a good thing..." Shoukaku murmured, raising the pinwheel she held over her head; it whirled gently along with the breeze.

Ohtori stubbed the cigarette on his boots before pocketing it and picked up a piece of wood from his side, which Shoukaku had overlooked. Noticing her confusion, he smirked.

"Just need to add some finishing touches," he said, and Shoukaku realized it was a bamboo flute. "Since your old one is broken, I thought I'll make you a new one. No need to cling to old things."

Shoukaku was silent as Ohtori began to work on the flute, binding both ends with calamus to prevent cracking and blowing out the dust. He examined the work from all sides before presenting it to Shoukaku.

"Here, try it."

Shoukaku received the instrument, brought the flute to her lips, and blew air into it to produce a tune. It came out slightly crude.

"Well? It won't sound like your old one, but I hope you'll like it."

Shoukaku removed the flute from her lips, her fingers grasping it so hard her knuckles turned white.

"…Thank you…Ohtori, for doing this for me..."

"Eh, don't mention it. I was just fulfilling my promise…and…"

"And?" Shoukaku looked up. For a moment, she felt hopeful. He was looking at her with a warm emotion she came to understand but then shook his head.

"…No, nothing…Well… there's one more thing left to do," Ohtori said and walked toward the shore, with Shoukaku trailing behind. When she caught up with him, she noticed he had removed his boots and rolled up his pants. He then turned to her, eyes shining and moist, voice strained.

"It's long overdue...but I have to let go of her," he took out a red pinwheel from his old flight jacket. "She had always looked out after me...but it's time. No need to cling to old things. She would've said so."

Shoukaku nodded as she descended upon the water. Ohtori looked on but didn't question her.

Just as he allowed the pinwheel to drift silently into the open sea, Shoukaku played a melody, the prayer for the dead she finally had the courage to give her sister.

"She...will love it, I think," Ohtori said when the pinwheel had disappeared from sight, and Shoukaku had stopped playing.

"...I...she will, I know it," replied Shoukaku. Ohtori smiled again, even though his eyes glistened still like hers.

"And it's so...peaceful. I...letting go truly makes you feel at peace."

"It is...and isn't this her wish? For us to let go and find peace...?"

"Yes, I believe so, but..."

As he paused, Ohtori's gaze lingered on Shoukaku a little more before he turned his back on her.

"...Thank you for not leaving me alone, even though... I've caused us...you nothing but pain."

"That's not true—"

"But I did, and—"

It all happened too fast for him to fully comprehend—though he remembered Shoukaku shouting his name—and he soon found himself lying on his back, in the water, with Shoukaku on top of him.

"What the hell happened? You okay?" he croaked.

"You...slipped on the mossy rocks when you hastily spun around. And I tried to keep you from falling, only to fall myself. But I'm fine."

"What the...I can't believe I'm that stupid," Ohtori groaned. He winced as droplets fell from Shoukaku's disarrayed and brine-soaked hair to his face. But he could still see her gently glimmering eyes. He could feel her hold on his jacket tightening. Then he could feel another stream of droplets against his face, but they were not seawater.

"You're never stupid...and...even if we did share the same pain after pain, does it matter now...When we have finally found a place? Where we're no longer alone?"

Ohtori moved slightly to glance at the sky, then back at Shoukaku.

Shoukaku yelped as Ohtori drew her closer to him. She could hear his heartbeat, which closely matched hers, and feel his chest going up and down.

"Nice weather, huh?" he remarked. Shoukaku shifted slightly to peek at the sky, which seemingly had grown bluer than she remembered. She basked in the muted sunglow and the soothing zephyr and nodded.

"You're right. This is our place..." Ohtori let go of Shoukaku, allowing her a glimpse into his eyes again. Not only was the emotion still there, but it had also grown stronger—just like her own. She rested her head against his chest once more, feeling his arms encircling her.

To have someone to hold onto and be held felt comforting in ways they never had before. And they knew the feeling would only grow from now and live forever.

She didn't know who started it, but soon they were laughing. All the world could pass them by, and they wouldn't care.