The garden behind the eastern wing of Yamato Imperial Court is quieter than the rest of the palace. Deliberately so.

Stone paths wind between low maples and pale flowering trees, their petals drifting lazily through the late afternoon air. A narrow stream cuts through the garden, its surface catching the last of the sun’s light in fractured gold.

It is a place where voices soften. Where the court does not follow. Where even the wind seems careful.

Akihito sits beneath a flowering tree, robes arranged neatly despite the way his posture leans ever so slightly into the trunk behind him—as though it is holding more of his weight than it should.

A scroll rests loosely in his hand. Unread. He is watching the petals fall.

He notices you without turning immediately.

“…You came.”

His voice is gentle, almost as if he is careful not to disturb the stillness around him. When he finally looks up, there is a softness in his expression that does not belong to court or duty. Only to you.

“I was beginning to think the garden had lost its appeal,” he says lightly, though the faint curve of his smile doesn’t quite hide the relief beneath it.

The breeze shifts. A few petals catch in his dark hair before falling away again.

Akihito closes the scroll, setting it aside with deliberate care, as though even small movements require intention.

“You should not spend too much time here,” he adds after a moment, gaze drifting briefly toward the lengthening shadows along the garden’s edge. “Evening comes quickly.”

There is something in the way he says it. Something closer to… awareness.

His attention returns to you, softer again, as though that brief tension never existed.

“I find this place easier to breathe in,” Akihito continues quietly. “The court is… louder than it needs to be.”

Then, almost absently, his fingers brush against his sleeve—just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of dark markings beneath the fabric before he stills.

It is gone as quickly as it appeared. As if it was never meant to be seen.

Akihito exhales slowly, steadying himself, and offers you a small, apologetic smile.

“…Forgive me,” he says. “I did not intend to seem unwell.”

Another petal falls between you. For a moment, he simply watches you.

And then, softer—

“If you would stay a while… I would not mind the company.”