Years passed.
The hospital room became a memory. The machines, the whispers, the fear—they all faded into the background of a life slowly rebuilt.
Yuki never spoke of the dream.
Not because he forgot.
But because some things are too fragile to explain.
He graduated. Got a job. Fell in love. Sometimes, he'd wake in the middle of the night, heart racing, tears on his cheeks, chasing the echo of a voice he couldn't place.
In his apartment, tucked between photo albums and forgotten books, sat an old, worn notebook. Blank.
Except for one page.
Twelve boxes.
All checked.
He never remembered writing them.
But every time he saw them, his chest ached with something that wasn't quite sadness.
He married a girl who reminded him of laughter.
They traveled to the sea.
On the last day of summer, standing by the shore, his daughter asked, "Daddy, did you ever have a summer you really loved?"
He looked out at the ocean, wind in his hair, and smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "But I once dreamed one."
And as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, he thought—just for a second—that he saw her.
A girl in a sundress.
Waving goodbye.