By the time evening had settled over Brighthollow, Haruto had learned three things.
First, the town's golden hour was breathtakingly beautiful.
Second, children were terrifyingly good at spotting mistakes in drawings...
And playing near what should've been a restricted area.
Third, old people gave advice whether you asked for it or not.
Especially if they thought you were in love.
The bookseller had eventually sent him away with a pensil of decent quality for free and a suspiciously knowing smile.
Haruto did not trust either.
Now he sat inside the largest inn in town.
The Hearthstone.
A building carved directly into the canyon wall.
The dining hall buzzed with conversation.
Miners filled long tables.
Travelers exchanged stories.
The smell of roasted meat drifted through the air.
Haruto felt messy and overwhelmed.
Not completely.
But enough.
The records from earlier still occupied his thoughts.
Someone matching Sakura's description had passed through this region.
Not years ago.
Not even close.
Recently.
The thought alone made the food taste better.
Haruto had nearly finished eating when disaster struck.
The disaster was named Tomas.
A middle-aged miner.
Large enough to qualify as a small mountain.
Friendly enough to be dangerous.
Tomas sat across from Haruto without invitation.
Haruto immediately knew this conversation would happen.
"You the artist?"
There it was.
"Maybe."
"That's a yes."
Wonderful.
Tomas pointed toward the sketchbook beside Haruto.
"The wife?"
Haruto closed his eyes.
Of course.
Word traveled quickly in small towns.
Apparently faster than light.
But the consequences of being faster than the speed of light is that Haruto always lived in the darkness.
About his infamy of course.
Several nearby patrons immediately turned their heads.
Interested.
Listening.
Waiting.
Haruto considered jumping out a window.
Unfortunately, they were underground.
"Yes."
The answer came before he could stop it.
The room collectively brightened.
Somehow.
A woman at the next table smiled.
An old man nodded approvingly.
Someone whispered:
"I told you."
Haruto became concerned.
Tomas leaned forward.
"Tell us."
"No."
"Tell us."
"No."
"You absolutely have to tell us."
"I absolutely do not."
The miner looked disappointed.
Several other people looked disappointed too.
Haruto suddenly felt trapped.
The innkeeper appeared.
Not to help.
To listen.
Traitor.
Eventually, Haruto surrendered.
Partially.
"There's not much to tell."
The room grew quiet.
Everyone listening.
Waiting.
Haruto stared at his drink.
Then smiled despite himself.
"We met at a library."
A few people immediately exchanged looks.
The dangerous kind.
The romantic kind.
Haruto regretted everything.
"She liked books."
He laughed softly.
"Actually, that's an understatement."
Several people chuckled.
The story continued.
Slowly.
Naturally.
Not because they forced him.
Because remembering Sakura was easy.
Comfortable.
Like revisiting home.
He told them about the first conversation.
About how she could spend hours reading without noticing the world.
About how she'd become strangely competitive whenever board games were involved.
About the time she'd accidentally made soup so salty that both of them pretended it tasted good.
The room laughed.
Haruto laughed too.
The memory felt warm.
Not painful.
Warm.
And for the first time, the people listening stopped hearing a tragic story.
They heard a happy one.
A real one.
The sort of story ordinary people lived.
Years later, Haruto realized something.
This was the first time he'd spoken about Sakura without feeling grief.
Without loss.
Without mourning.
He wasn't remembering what he had lost.
He was remembering what he still had.
The realization caught him off guard.
A silence followed.
Gentle.
Comfortable.
Then Tomas asked:
"So what's she like?"
Haruto blinked.
The answer should've been simple.
Yet dozens of descriptions appeared at once.
Kind.
Quiet.
Stubborn.
Patient.
Brilliant.
Awkward.
Strong.
He smiled.
"Home."
The room became very quiet.
Nobody joked.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody teased him.
Even Tomas looked surprised.
Because somehow that single word explained everything.
Haruto took a sip of his drink.
Conversation gradually resumed.
People returned to their meals.
Stories continued.
Life moved on.
Yet something had changed.
Not around him.
Inside him.
For years, he'd been searching because he refused to give up.
Now he was searching because he genuinely believed he would succeed.
The difference was enormous.
Later that night, as the crowd thinned, the innkeeper approached.
This time without an audience.
Without teasing.
Without a smile.
Just business.
"There's something you should see tomorrow."
Haruto looked up.
The man's expression was serious.
Interesting.
"What is it?"
The innkeeper glanced toward the canyon entrance.
Then lowered his voice.
"A courier arrived this morning."
Silence.
"Okay?"
The innkeeper nodded.
"He brought a travel registry from the eastern mountain routes."
Haruto's heartbeat slowed.
Then accelerated.
A travel registry.
Records.
Names.
Dates.
Routes.
The exact kind of information he'd spent months hunting.
The innkeeper folded his arms.
"You might want to check it."
Haruto stared.
The peaceful warmth from earlier remained.
Yet something new appeared beside it.
Anticipation.
Not desperation.
Not panic.
Anticipation.
Because tomorrow might contain answers.
"WHY AM I NOT BEING MENTIONED ANYMORE?"