Snow blanketed the villa in a soft hush. Winter had come, and with it, a silence that felt sacred. Haruka and her brother played near the grand staircase, their laughter echoing faintly through the halls.
In the study, Hiro sat at his desk, a man changed by love and time. His hair was a little grayer at the temples now, his hands steadier. On the desk was a letter, unsigned, postmarked from their college town. It was the last loose end.
It simply read: "I know what Ayaka did. And I know you helped."
He folded it carefully and slid it into the fireplace, watching it burn. Some truths were meant to vanish into ash.
Behind him, Ayaka wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her chin on his shoulder.
"What was that?" she whispered.
"Nothing that matters anymore."
She pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Good. Because you promised. And I never forget promises."
Hiro turned and looked into her eyes. That familiar glint—equal parts devotion and danger—was still there. But now, it no longer frightened him. It anchored him.
"Have you ever regretted it?" he asked softly. "Everything you did?"
Ayaka thought for a moment. "Only that I couldn't do more to protect what we had sooner. But no... never the love. Never you."
They walked together through the villa, now filled with life. The children's drawings lined the walls. A violin played on the stereo—Ayaka's old recordings. Outside, the garden bloomed even in the frost, a strange wonder nourished by heated soil and relentless care.
In the greenhouse, Ayaka tended to her roses. Crimson, always crimson. Hiro stood at the edge, watching her work. The air smelled of earth and memory.
"Do you think people like us deserve peace?" he asked suddenly.
She turned, red gloves dripping with dew. "Only if we take it. And hold it. And never let anyone steal it again."
A knock echoed at the front door.
A stranger. A journalist.
Ayaka saw him first, her hand slipping to the shears in her apron. But Hiro stepped forward, calm and composed.
"I'll handle it," he said.
The man introduced himself, spoke of missing persons, patterns, software code hidden within Hiro's recent work.
Hiro smiled, the perfect host. "I think you're chasing ghosts, Mr. Tanaka. But if you'd like to write fiction, we've a whole library upstairs."
The journalist left, unsettled by the warmth that masked the storm beneath.
That night, Ayaka lay beside him, her head on his chest.
"He'll be back," she said.
"Let him. He won't find anything."
"Because you made sure of it."
"Yes," Hiro whispered. "Because I chose this."
They fell asleep to the rhythm of winter wind and distant music. The diary on the nightstand lay open to a fresh page.
"He loves the cage now. He sings in it. I knew he would."
Years passed. The children grew.
And in the world beyond the villa, stories swirled—myths of the perfect couple who never left their estate, where the gardens always bloomed red, and laughter echoed just a bit too sweet.
No one dared ask why the nearby woods stayed untouched, or why the chapel never welcomed guests.
In the heart of the villa, Hiro and Ayaka stood side by side before a mirror. Time had changed them, but not their eyes. Not their love.
"This is eternity," she said.
"And we made it crimson," he replied.
They kissed.
And the mirror held them both—perfect, complete, and bound forever.