That afternoon, after chores had been done and charcoal dust scrubbed from their hands, Shinji followed Ren and Hana to the old cherry tree near the village shrine. The tree stood tall and twisted, branches reaching upward like thin fingers toward the sun. Tiny green buds dotted the branches, promising flowers soon to bloom. At the tree's roots sat Gran-elder Daichi, leaning back against the wide trunk with a peaceful smile.
Daichi was the oldest person Shinji knew. His skin looked like dried leather, wrinkled and deep, but his eyes were bright, full of life and gentle laughter. He held a worn bamboo cane across his lap, fingers resting lightly on its smooth surface.
"Come closer, children," Daichi said warmly, his voice soft and rough from age. "It's a good day for stories."
Shinji sat cross-legged on the grass beside Hana and Ren, looking up expectantly. They loved Daichi's stories—simple tales filled with wisdom, laughter, and sometimes gentle sadness. But today, Shinji's mind felt restless. Ever since he'd felt that strange warmth in his chest, questions buzzed quietly in his thoughts. He hoped the stories might help quiet them for a while.
Daichi tapped the cane lightly against the ground, clearing his throat gently. "Let me tell you the story of the cherry blossoms," he began, smiling as he gazed upward at the branches. "Long ago, when the village was very young, people believed cherry blossoms carried wishes up to the sky. Every year, when blossoms fell, each petal was said to carry a dream or hope upward to the clouds."
Ren leaned forward slightly, eyes shining with interest. "Did it really work?"
Daichi chuckled softly, patting Ren's shoulder lightly. "No one knows, child. But they believed strongly, and sometimes belief itself has power."
Hana tilted her head thoughtfully. "Did you ever send a wish, Gran-elder?"
Daichi smiled faintly, his gaze distant. "Every year. And every year, my wish was the same—for the village to stay peaceful, for good harvests, for children to laugh and play freely beneath this tree." His eyes settled gently on the three children. "I think perhaps those wishes did reach somewhere good."
Shinji looked down at his lap, gently tracing a finger through the grass. The story was nice, comforting even, but something tugged at his thoughts, unsettled and restless. "Gran-elder," he asked quietly, "what if your wish was something impossible?"
Daichi's eyes met Shinji's, patient and understanding. "Impossible how?"
Shinji hesitated. "Like… something that could never happen, something too big or strange."
Daichi leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "No wish is too big or strange, Shinji. Dreams and wishes aren't bound by rules. They only depend on your heart. If you believe, then even impossible things can grow into something real."
Shinji nodded slowly, unsure yet somehow comforted. He glanced up at the branches again, imagining petals floating gently upward, each carrying hidden dreams toward the sky.
Ren stretched his arms, breaking the thoughtful silence. "So, if I wish for strength to swing the biggest hammer in the village, it might come true?"
Daichi laughed warmly, eyes twinkling. "Only if you practice. Wishes give you strength, but effort shapes your dreams into reality."
Ren grinned broadly. "Then I'll start practicing tomorrow!"
Hana rolled her eyes playfully. "You said that yesterday."
Ren stuck out his tongue, making Hana laugh softly. Shinji watched them with a quiet smile, the tight knot of worry in his chest easing just a little. He loved these moments—simple, warm, and filled with laughter.
Daichi stood slowly, leaning on his cane. "Now, each of you, pick a cherry seed from beneath the tree. Plant it near your homes. Whisper your wish as you plant it, and watch carefully as it grows."
Hana and Ren quickly began searching through the fallen blossoms for seeds. Shinji hesitated, his thoughts heavy with uncertainty, before finally joining them. After careful searching, he found a tiny seed, smooth and cool between his fingers.
As they walked home later, Shinji held tightly to his seed. He wondered quietly what wish he could possibly whisper. The warmth he'd felt earlier lingered gently in his memory—strange, yet comforting. He hoped that one day he might understand it.
Ren waved goodbye at the forked path leading to his home, and Hana walked alongside Shinji, quiet but thoughtful. "Shinji," she said softly, glancing sideways at him, "you've been quieter lately. Is something really bothering you?"
He paused, considering carefully. He wanted to explain, but he wasn't sure how to describe the warmth or the confusion he felt. Finally, he shook his head gently. "Just thinking."
She nodded slowly, accepting but not fully convinced. "If you want to talk about it, you know I'll listen."
He smiled gently, comforted by her kindness. "I know. Thank you, Hana."
They reached their small home just as the sky turned softly pink and orange. After dinner, Shinji went quietly behind their house, kneeling near the soft earth beside the porch. Carefully, he pressed the cherry seed into the soil, gently covering it with dirt.
He hesitated a moment, then whispered softly to the buried seed, "Please, help me understand what this strange feeling is inside me. I need to know."
He sat back, quietly staring at the small mound of earth. The warmth flickered gently again in his chest, a quiet reassurance. Maybe wishes couldn't really fly into the sky, but believing felt important, like Daichi said.
A quiet cough behind him made Shinji jump slightly. Turning quickly, he saw his father standing quietly near the porch, eyes gentle but curious. "Whispering secrets to the dirt now, Shinji?"
Shinji felt his face flush slightly. "Just planting a seed. Gran-elder Daichi said to whisper a wish."
His father nodded thoughtfully, stepping closer and kneeling beside him. "When I was small, I whispered wishes to seeds too. And sometimes, I still do. It's good to believe in something, even if it feels silly."
Shinji felt a quiet comfort in his father's words, nodding gently. They sat quietly for a moment, watching the fading sky darken slowly into night. Eventually, his father stood, placing a gentle hand on Shinji's shoulder. "Come inside soon. It's getting cold."
"I will," Shinji promised softly.
When his father had gone inside, Shinji placed his palm carefully over the buried seed again. He felt strangely calm, like some hidden part of him was slowly coming awake, still confusing but no longer frightening.
"Grow well," he whispered again, quiet hope filling his voice.
Then he stood, brushing dirt gently from his knees, and walked back into the warmth of home, ready to face whatever tomorrow might bring.