The descent into Tokyo was gentle, the plane sliding beneath a curtain of orange-streaked clouds as if lowering him into a new chapter. When the doors opened, Eadlyn Greyson stepped out with a single suitcase and a heart caught somewhere between exhaustion and anticipation. Airports always felt like crossroads to him—places where stories ended and others began.
Japan greeted him with warm, humid air and the distant hum of trains. He paused, taking it in. Back in the UK, life had become predictable—classes, casual friendships, shallow romances that flickered out the moment conflict appeared. People around him moved fast, felt fast, grew tired fast. He had watched relationships crumble over misunderstandings that could've been resolved with one honest conversation.
But here… maybe he could see what love looked like when it wasn't disposable.
The taxi ride wound through districts glowing with neon, passing alleyways where lanterns swayed quietly. Shrines hid in pockets between skyscrapers, ancient and unmoved. That contrast struck him. Maybe love, too, was like this—modern in expression, traditional in strength.
The car turned into a peaceful lane lined with wooden houses and small gardens. When it stopped before a villa trimmed with soft lights, Eadlyn felt something stir. Before he could ring the bell, the door slid open.
"Eadlyn!"
His grandmother, Fujisaki Sakura, nearly leapt forward. Her arms wrapped around him with the warmth of every festival, every childhood story, every memory he had missed. Behind her stood Ichijo Reno, tall, composed, his sharp eyes softening with affection.
"You've grown," Reno said, voice calm yet proud.
"You two haven't changed," Eadlyn laughed, stepping inside.
The interior smelled faintly of tatami and Sakura's cooking. Photos lined the hallway—his grandparents beneath cherry blossoms, younger versions of them posing beside shrines, laughter frozen in time. To Eadlyn, it felt like stepping into the pages of a life built on devotion. They had loved for decades without letting the world erode them. That alone made him wonder if love still existed like this among younger generations.
Over dinner, Sakura fussed lovingly. "You should've told us! We would've welcomed you at the airport."
"I wanted to see the city by myself," he explained. "And… I just wanted to be here."
Reno leaned back. "Are you planning to stay long?"
"Actually… yes. I want to study here. If it's okay."
"In the way?" Sakura scoffed with a laugh. "This house has always had a place for you. Stay as long as you want."
Her certainty warmed something in him. He had spent so long pretending to be self-sufficient, aloof, untouchable. But here, surrounded by love that had survived decades, he felt a crack in his own walls.
Later, after unpacking, he stepped outside to breathe the evening air. A breeze carried the scent of flowers. The house next door had a small garden where wind chimes tinkled softly. Lanterns glowed behind the shoji screens, casting warm silhouettes.
He didn't know why, but the sight lingered in his mind.
As if the story waiting for him… began right there.
Japan wasn't an escape.
It was the first page of the real story of his life—
one that would test his beliefs, challenge his heart, and perhaps teach him that love was not a fleeting spark but a steady flame.
A flame he had come all this way to understand.
And with the soft rustling of evening blossoms at the gate, his story began.