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Mitsuba was like sakuras. His hair as pink as its petals and his beauty as elegant as the flower.
Mitsuba was like sakuras. With his frail and petite body, just as fragile as a cherry blossom, who could wilt at a moment’s notice.
Mitsuba was like sakuras. They die and so did he—so will everyone.
But sakuras are constant. They always came back the next spring without fail. And so did Mitsuba.
Just like in the hell of mirrors.
Just like in the perfect picture.
Just like in the red house.
He always came back to him. And then would fade away, just like sakuras when they fall to the ground.
But he’ll come back once again when the cherry blossoms bloom. Just like always.
They’ll see each other again, Minamoto was sure of it.
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