The afternoon light spilled softly across the garden,
catching the edge of the leaves and making the sake glasses shimmer.
They didn’t speak much.
They didn’t need to.
Wearing light cotton samue,
they sat together—
not quite facing each other,
but close enough for warmth to pass silently between them.
The sake wasn’t expensive.
Just well-chosen.
Cool, delicate, poured slowly from a clear carafe into small, round cups.
The kind of drink that doesn’t rush you—
that invites you to breathe.
Around them, the garden moved gently.
A breeze brushed the branches.
Somewhere, a bee hummed past.
A cicada began its song, then stopped again.
This was summer,
not in the way that postcards show it,
but in the way that the body understands:
linen against skin,
glass against lips,
a sip shared without words.
They smiled, almost at the same time.
Not for the camera,
not for each other—
but for the peace that had quietly arrived, and stayed.
Some moments don’t need music, or plans, or perfect timing.
Just sake, shared stillness,
and someone beside you.
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