Ryuji, a young samurai in gleaming blue armor, kneels beside a stone lantern, his katana resting across his knees. Petals gather about his feet as he meditates, eyes closed, the evening air tinged with the scent of wisteria. Suddenly, footsteps approach—soft and hesitant—disturbing the hush of twilight.
Akiko, a woman in a pale pink kimono embroidered with roses, appears from behind a willow. Her dark hair is pinned with a single red blossom, and her gaze meets Ryuji's with a mixture of curiosity and sadness. "I did not mean to disturb your peace, honored samurai," she whispers, voice trembling like the breeze.
Ryuji rises, captivated by Akiko's delicate beauty and the melancholic aura that surrounds her. "You could never disturb me, lady," he says, his tone gentle yet earnest, eyes searching hers for secrets. They stroll beneath the boughs, laughter mingling with the distant song of a nightingale, as if the world has paused to witness their meeting.
Akiko plucks a rosebud from her sleeve, rolling its silken petals between her fingers. "Sometimes, beauty is only borrowed from the world," she murmurs, her voice heavy with meaning. Ryuji senses the weight of her words but is helplessly drawn to her.
Sitting on the wooden bridge, Akiko gazes into the rippling water, her reflection wavering amid lily pads. "There is something I must confess," she says, voice barely more than a sigh. Ryuji, heart pounding, kneels beside her.
"In seven days, I will cease to be as you see me. I am bound by a curse: on the seventh dawn, I will become a rose, and only the morning dew will remember my name." Ryuji listens in stunned silence, the night seeming to hold its breath with him.
Ryuji refuses to leave Akiko's side, his devotion unwavering. Each day passes with increasing urgency—they walk through rain-slicked paths, share whispered hopes beneath the eaves, and savor every stolen moment. "If your fate is to become a rose, let me be the one to protect you, to remember you always," he vows, his hand warm around hers.
Akiko smiles through her tears, hope and sorrow mingling in her eyes. "Then, when I am gone, promise me you will not grieve, but cherish the rose that remains," she pleads, and Ryuji bows his head in solemn promise.
On the seventh day, Ryuji finds Akiko waiting beneath the ancient cherry tree, her kimono shimmering as if spun from moonlight. "Thank you for seeing me, truly," she whispers, her voice distant, fading like a dream at dawn.
As the first ray of sun slips over the horizon, Akiko closes her eyes and dissolves into a swirl of petals, leaving behind a single, perfect rose cradled where she once stood. Ryuji kneels, tears slipping down his cheeks as he cups the flower in trembling hands.
Each day, Ryuji tends to the rose, whispering to it the stories of their brief, eternal love. Samurai and flower, bound by memory, linger in the garden's heart, their tale carried on every breeze that stirs the petals. And though Akiko's voice is gone, its echo lives on, soft as the rustle of a rose in bloom.
