Oya! Double Sakura Tree!

Morning hush drapes the park in light. Two sakura trees, side by side—Double Sakura—blush at dawn. Their branches, tangled in gentle unity, breathe life into Oya’s heart. She stands, jacket tight, though not tight enough to harm.

Harsh words between her and her significant other had carved this path beneath her feet. Too much thunder, too many unshed raindrops clinging to her lashes. Her mother had once said the Double Sakura was a place of reflection, where petals held whispers of restless souls. "Watch," she had urged, "see life unfurl in their fleeting bloom." She had always been too busy, yet she found herself with much more time as of late.

The Double Sakuras was as beautiful as she expected. How could they not be? Yet as Oya stood beneath their trembling boughs, they felt fragile, powerless against the tempest brewing within.

Well, maybe if you actually took a good, hard look. 

The words jolted her, a ripple through still waters, until she recognized the voice—her mother’s. It had begun weeks ago, a whisper surfacing through the first silent shock. In sleep, her mother visited, urging her to wake early, to nourish herself, and to let go of the weight pressing on her shoulders. She hadn't told her therapist. How do you explain that her mother's ghost, a memory wrapped in love and longing, was now her keeper of wisdom? 

A whirl of wind stirred the petals overhead, and Oya watched a lone blossom break free, pirouetting on invisible currents before settling on grass. She bent, careful and deliberate, reaching for the fragile remnant. But just as her fingers brushed close, the wind reclaimed it, spinning it away—untethered, never lingering. She straightened, the ache in her back formidable. In the distance, a soft whirr of water trickled through a small stone fountain, adding a soothing undertone to the park’s hush.

Are you going to keep standing there or look at the tree, Oya?

"I'm on it, mother," she murmured. 

As Oya neared the Double Sakura, she saw the quieter tree’s buds swelling, breath held on the cusp of bloom. A hush of expectancy rumbled in the air. No bud remains closed forever; even the most reluctant blossom must yield to the light. A tiny ladybug inched along a branch, its red shell a flicker of persistence against the bark. It climbed toward a cluster of buds—stumbling once, twice, a third time—yet never faltering. The bug was far more courageous than she could ever hope to be.

One tree stood proud, its branches reaching skyward, basking in the golden hush of morning. Blossoms cascaded down in a radiant display, untouched by hesitation. Beside it, the smaller sakura pressed close, its limbs curling inward, as if drawing breath from the giant beside it. A lifeline. A loving tether. Oya’s chest tightened. She thought of her husband—how she leaned into him, how his presence steadied her, how much she despised needing that steadiness. Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting skin. Emotion clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it whole. Not here. Not now.

Her gaze drifted downward. The ladybug had returned, still struggling, still climbing—its tiny legs slipping, grasping, determined. A flicker of resilience in the morning light. For once, she wanted to be the one lifting something up. She reached out, cradling the fragile speck upon her fingertip. It hesitated, trembling, then held fast—trusting, unafraid. She lifted it higher, offering it to the waiting branch, a bridge between struggle and safety. As it found its footing, she felt something inside her shift—an uncoiling, a quiet release. She exhaled, softer this time. Maybe, just maybe, she could learn to stand on her own, too.

Footsteps crunched against the gravel behind her. She knew the rhythm, the hesitant pauses between each step. He was here.

"Oya," his voice was low, urgent, and thick with sorrow. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to push you into anything. I hate that I'm making you feel like you have no choice."

She kept her gaze on the Double Sakura, watching the union of strength and dependence before her. The wind stirred the blossoms, scattering them in whispered confessions.

"I just want you to know that I'm not here to force anything," he continued. "I only want what you want. Always."

She sighed, her fingers relaxing as a single tear traced the curve of her cheek. "I forgive you," she murmured, not for his sake, but for her own. A wind fluttered, carrying the anxiety and doom with it.

A breath of relief left him. "Looks like you finally took your mother’s suggestion," he said, following her gaze to the trees.

She nodded, the branches swaying gently above them. She turned to him and met his starry eyes. "She was always right."

I know that's damn right.

Oya rasped. "Oh, shut up, mother."

Her husband raised an eyebrow at her for a moment. 

"Its nothing," she says. She moved her gaze away, rubbing her arm gently. She let out another sigh, this time more graceful. Her breath lingered with his for some time. Finally, she spoke again. "Let's go home. We need to finish renovating the room."

Her husband let a ghost of a smirk tug at his lips. "Lets do that." He grabbed her hands. "And it will be exactly how you want it. I'll do all the work until its your turn. Just tell me what you want."

The two of them left, hands entwined, to breathe life into that room once more. The arguments didn’t vanish, but they softened, echoes fading into the distance, drowned out by purpose. With each passing season, the weight of the past eased, the scope of their world widening and sharpening. But Oya still returned to the trees. Especially as her mother’s voice dimmed into the hush of memory. A bitter pilgrimage, yet a necessary one. She was not her mother, not as strong, not as certain. She did not know the path forward, only that she would take each step alone—and that she would carve something beautiful from the unknown.

Oya found herself once more beneath the Double Sakura Trees, the weight over her chest as present as the morning air. Spring had come again, unfurling petals like pink snow. The elder tree, weathered but steadfast, bore its years with quiet dignity, its blossoms softer, more measured. Beside it, the younger sakura stretched its arms freely, unburdened, reaching beyond the limits of its companion. One was wisdom, the other possibility—rooted together yet distinctly their own. Oya exhaled, the parallel settling deep within her. Growth did not erase the past; it honored it. 

"It's beautiful," she whispered, her voice trembling petals in the breeze. Emotion spilled from her eyes, tracing a path down her cheeks, pooling onto the weight cradled against her chest. She held it close—not just with her arms, but with every piece of herself, steady, reverent. A breath, a heartbeat, a moment suspended in time.

Slowly, she lowered her gaze, meeting the tiny, wondering eyes that blinked back at her. A fragile miracle wrapped in warmth. "Beautiful," she murmured, a smile breaking through the tears. "Just like you, Sakura."