The winter wind brushed against the windowpane of their small Tokyo apartment, humming like a distant memory. Aiko sat cross-legged on the floor, a faded cardboard box before her. The box had been tucked away in the back of her closet since they moved in—one of the last remnants of her childhood home. She hadn't opened it in months.
Outside, the sky was overcast. Haruto was still at his part-time job, and the silence in the apartment felt heavier than usual. Aiko reached into the box, drawing out old sketchbooks, crinkled photographs, and a few dried cherry blossoms pressed between notebook pages.
And then, her fingers brushed against something that wasn't paper. She pulled it out—a pale pink envelope, slightly yellowed with time. Her name was scrawled on it in familiar handwriting. It was from her mother.
The room around her faded into stillness.
Her mother had passed away when Aiko was in her first year of high school, a soft-spoken woman with gentle eyes and a voice like spring rain. She'd written the letter during her final days, asking Aiko's aunt to give it to her when she was older—when the time was right.
Apparently, the letter had been accidentally packed among her old things, and here it was now, resting in her trembling hands.
Aiko's eyes filled with warmth and tears as she opened it.
My dearest Aiko,
If you're reading this, you've grown. Maybe you're already a young woman chasing dreams in a big city, or maybe you're still learning who you are. Wherever you are, know this: I am so proud of you.
There are many things I wanted to tell you, but life didn't give us time. So I'll write them here, hoping my words find you on a quiet day when you need them most.
You were always so full of color, Aiko. Even as a child, you looked at the world like it was a blank canvas you were ready to paint. Never let that go. Your art is not just about strokes or shades—it's how you see beauty when others see ordinary. It's your gift.
You might face days when people won't understand your vision. Don't let their doubts plant roots in your heart. You have more strength than you know.
I hope by now you've found someone who listens when you're quiet, and laughs when you're afraid. Someone who sees the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about stars or sunsets or dreams you haven't yet spoken aloud. If that person exists—hold them gently. Love, real love, is rare and soft and sacred.
But even without anyone by your side, you are enough. You always were.
I hope Tokyo treats you kindly. I imagine you walking through its crowded streets, sketchbook tucked under your arm, searching for stories only your eyes can see. I hope you've seen snow fall from the rooftop of a library, and I hope you've painted under the warm breath of spring.
Most of all, I hope you still visit cherry blossom trees when they bloom. That was our favorite time, wasn't it? When petals danced like confetti, and you used to say they looked like pink snow.
And if you ever feel lost, Aiko, remember that you carry me with you—in the way you hum while painting, in the scent of cinnamon tea, in the strength of your kindness.
Live boldly. Laugh often. And love, oh love with all your heart.
Forever with you,
Mom
By the end, Aiko's hands were shaking. Tears fell freely down her cheeks, but they weren't only from sadness. The letter felt like an embrace from across time—a warm voice whispering into her soul.
She sat there for a long time, holding the paper to her chest.
When the door opened sometime later, Haruto stepped in, snowflakes clinging to his coat. He saw her sitting there, eyes red, hands still holding the letter.
"Aiko?" he asked gently, kneeling beside her.
She looked up at him, smiling through her tears. "It's from my mother," she whispered.
He didn't need to ask anything else. He just sat beside her, and she leaned into him, the letter between them like a bridge to the past. They stayed that way, the warmth of their shared silence louder than any words.
Later that night, Aiko placed the letter in a small wooden frame and set it beside her desk. From that day on, whenever she painted, the words echoed in her mind—not as a memory, but as living guidance.
And in the corner of every canvas, she signed her name just a little brighter. For herself. For her mother. For the love that never fades, even with time.