The city felt colder than she remembered.

Aiko hadn’t been to Tokyo in almost five years — not since the funeral that never happened. The streets were the same: noisy, neon-lit, full of people chasing things they’d never catch. But everything felt quieter now. Maybe it was her. Or maybe it was the part of her heart still standing under the cherry tree.

Sora walked beside her, hands in his coat pockets, gaze scanning the skyline like he was reading the air itself.

"You okay?" he asked without looking at her.

She nodded. "Just... memories. They sneak up on you, you know?"

"Yeah. Memories have teeth."

They reached the address scribbled inside the back of Ren’s letter — an apartment complex tucked into the edge of Kichijoji. The building was older now, windows dusty, nameplate faded.

“This is where he was living?” she asked.

“Supposedly.”
Sora pulled out his notebook — not the poetic one, but a smaller leather-bound journal filled with names, places, dates. It was organized like a detective’s tool. Aiko raised an eyebrow.

“You really go this deep into your poems?”

“Some poems need investigating.”
He flipped to a page. “He had a roommate. A student named Kenta Nakamura. He still lives in the city. We meet him tomorrow.”

“Why not now?”

“Because tonight, we go here.”

He pointed down the block to a bookstore with dark green windows and a single light on inside.

Tsukiko Books — Rare & Used.

It looked abandoned, if not for the faint jazz music playing through the glass. Aiko’s pulse picked up.

They stepped inside. Bells jingled above the door. The air smelled of ink, age, and secrets.

Behind the counter sat an old man, thin and sharp-eyed. He looked up slowly. “Looking for something rare... or something forgotten?”

Sora stepped forward. “We’re looking for this.”

He placed Ren’s poetry collection — the one that hid the letter — on the counter.

The man stared at it for a moment. Then his fingers brushed the cover with strange reverence.

“I remember this one,” he murmured. “Came in six years ago. A boy left it here in a rush. Said it was cursed.”

Aiko’s breath caught. “A boy?”

“Shaggy hair. Glasses. Looked terrified. Kept saying ‘they’re watching me.’ I never saw him again.”

She felt the floor tilt beneath her.

“…Did he say who ‘they’ were?”

The man nodded slowly.

“One name. Written inside the back cover, barely legible.”
He opened the book with practiced fingers.
Aiko and Sora leaned in.

There, scribbled in pencil, just above the binding:

‘Kurohana.’

Aiko whispered it. “Kurohana?”

Sora’s brow furrowed. “Black flower. That’s not a person. That’s... a code name. Or an organization.”

The old man suddenly grew quiet. He looked around, leaned in close.

“I don’t know who you two are, or what you’re chasing,” he said, “but if you’re stirring up Kurohana, you’d better be ready for what follows.”

Aiko swallowed.

Because for the first time in six years, she wasn’t chasing a ghost anymore.

She was chasing the people who killed him.

To be continued in...

Chapter 4: The Tokyo Notebook

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