When he first stepped into my vintage kimono shop, Hime Matsuyama, it felt like a gentle breeze had swept in. When he smiled, three wrinkles crinkled at the corners of his eyes, and a crisp, fruity scent wafted from his neck. He said he was born when the first south wind blew in spring, and I etched his name into my heart. Mr. Haruichiro, a man who wore a ring on his left ring finger. Even so, Mr. Haruichiro gradually filled my life. When I was with him, words flowed effortlessly, one after another. The slopes we walked together, the blossoms we admired, the intimate whispers--how I wished it could all last forever. My heart, like a magnet, yearned to rush toward him. When we were apart, it felt as though a vital part of
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