Dreams did not begin for Ren Akiyama.
They returned him to a place he had always known.
Every night, when his eyes closed and the noise of the waking world faded, he found himself standing before an old railway crossing.
The crossing existed in a perpetual sunset.
The sky was awash in colors too vivid to belong to reality-amber melting into crimson, violet stretching across the horizon like watercolor on wet paper. Golden light shimmered on the steel rails, making them look less like metal and more like silver ribbons laid gently across the earth.
The air was warm.
Not hot.
Warm in the way a summer evening felt when the world seemed reluctant to let the day end.
The scent of wildflowers drifted on the breeze. Cicadas sang from the nearby trees in a rhythmic chorus, neither loud nor quiet, but comforting. Time moved differently there. Every breath felt longer. Every sound felt softer.
And waiting on the other side of the tracks was a girl.
She always stood in the same place.
Hands tucked behind her back.
Weight shifted slightly onto one foot.
Her dark hair, straight and silky, reached just below her shoulders. When the wind blew, several loose strands brushed against her cheeks. Her eyes were a deep brown, but under the endless sunset they looked almost golden.
They were the kind of eyes that smiled before her lips did.
And when she saw him, she always tilted her head just a little, as if amused by something only she knew.
Then she would say, in a voice soft as evening rain:
"You're late."
---
Ren first saw her when he was eight.
Or at least, that was the earliest dream he could remember.
He had stood frozen beside the crossing gates, small hands clenched into fists, his pajamas fluttering in the summer wind.
The girl looked no older than him.
She wore a white dress patterned with tiny blue flowers. Her sandals were dusty, and a pale yellow ribbon was tied around her wrist.
She smiled as if she had been waiting for years.
"Do I know you?" he asked.
His voice was timid.
The girl's smile widened.
"You forgot already?"
There was no accusation in her tone.
Only playful disappointment.
"I've never seen you before," he insisted.
She let out a small laugh.
That laugh was unlike anything he had ever heard.
Light.
Clear.
And unbearably familiar.
It stirred something in his chest he was too young to understand.
"That's okay," she said, stepping closer until they stood separated only by the gleaming rails.
Her eyes softened.
"I'll remind you."
---
Years passed.
