Spring arrived with its usual fanfare—birds singing, flowers blooming, everything awakening from winter’s sleep. Mira was eighteen now, and the memories of that summer had grown hazy. She could barely picture Kai’s face anymore, just fragments: serious eyes, careful movements, that black flute.

But she remembered the melody. It played in her mind during quiet moments, haunting and beautiful.

On impulse, she found herself driving back to her grandmother’s old property. The house had been sold years ago, but she could still walk the fields. Her feet carried her along familiar paths until she saw it—the oak tree, still standing proud and tall, watching over the vast field.

Mira’s chest tightened. She didn’t know why she’d come. What was she hoping for? That a childhood acquaintance she’d met once would somehow be here?

Still, she found herself standing in the exact spot where she’d sat that summer day. The feeling of déjà vu washed over her, so strong it almost hurt. The longing she’d pushed down for years rose up, undeniable.

Every season, she’d thought about coming back. Every year, she’d wondered what happened to the quiet boy with the beautiful flute. And now here she stood, alone under the oak tree, feeling foolish but unable to leave.

The breeze picked up, rustling the new spring leaves.

And then she heard it.

A flute’s melody, drifting through the air. That same tune—the exact melody from ten years ago. Her heart stopped.

Mira spun around, scanning the field. There, standing at the edge of the tree line, was Kai. Older now, taller, but unmistakable. The same bamboo flute. The same serious face—except now he was smiling.

She stood frozen, dumbfounded. This couldn’t be real.

Kai lowered the flute and began walking toward her. One step at a time, unhurried, just like that first day. 

Thud… thud… Each footfall seemed to echo in her chest.

When he stopped in front of her, Mira couldn’t find words.

“I’ve come back every spring,” Kai said softly. “Hoping you would too.”