Spring came early that year.
Not in the way mortals counted it — no calendar marked its arrival — but in the way the air softened, and the rivers sang differently, and petals began to fall before the trees had even bloomed.
Villagers woke to find their gardens scattered with pale pink fragments that glowed faintly before fading.
Children gathered them in cupped hands, whispering to each other that the blossoms were dreaming again.
They were right.
---
Far above the valley where the fissure had sealed, life stirred anew. The small tree that had grown from the healed earth stood taller now, its blossoms shimmering between hues — white by dawnlight, crimson by dusk, and rose by moon.
Travelers who passed through said they heard music there — not of instruments, but of roots humming softly beneath the soil.
Some knelt and prayed.
Others simply stood, silent, as if remembering something they'd never known they'd forgotten.
And though no god revealed themselves, the prayers were answered — gently, wordlessly, in the bloom of flowers where none had grown before.
---
Rei stayed by the valley.
She built a small home near the tree, shaping clay with her now-golden fingertips. Her pottery glimmered with faint patterns of blossoms that seemed to shift when touched by sunlight.
Sometimes, when she worked at night, she would hear a voice in the breeze — gentle, feminine, and calm.
> "You are shaping memory into form, little dreamer."
She never knew if it was Sakura or the world itself speaking, but she always smiled and whispered back:
> "Then I hope it remembers warmth."
And it did.
---
The spiritwalker wandered far beyond the valley.
He crossed rivers, forests, and the endless plains, following the faint pulse of the roots beneath his feet. Wherever he went, small signs of balance followed — springs that ran clear again, trees that healed from blight, travelers who dreamed of pink petals and awoke with peace instead of fear.
In his dreams, he sometimes saw her.
Sakura — no longer divine, but walking among mortals in different faces.
A farmer's wife, tending fields that never withered.
A healer, whispering songs to newborns.
A wanderer under the stars, leaving a trail of blossoms in her wake.
Each time, she smiled at him, and the world seemed a little more alive.
---
As for Sakura herself, she had become something both less and more than what she'd been.
No longer a goddess bound to one form, she drifted through the world like fragrance — unseen but felt, fleeting but eternal.
Wherever sorrow lingered too long, she would appear in dreams: a woman with eyes like twilight, her voice a soft rain on weary hearts.
> "The roots remember," she would whisper, "but so do you. Wake gently."
And when those dreamers awoke, the weight in their hearts had eased — not vanished, but softened, made bearable.
---
One night, beneath a sky heavy with stars, the spiritwalker returned to the valley.
Years had passed, yet the great tree still stood, strong and luminous. The air around it shimmered faintly with petals caught in a slow, perpetual fall.
He knelt beside its roots and placed his hand upon the earth.
> "You've done it," he said quietly. "The world's breathing again."
A breeze stirred the blossoms, and a single petal drifted down to rest on his palm. It glowed faintly, then dissolved into light.
> "And so are you."
The voice was gentle, familiar.
He closed his eyes, smiling faintly. "Still watching over us, aren't you?"
> "Not watching," came the whisper, "listening."
He laughed softly. "To what?"
> "To everything you've learned to love."
The wind carried her laughter through the valley — quiet, warm, like the sound of petals touching water.
---
As dawn broke, the world seemed to exhale.
The mist lifted. The rivers shone. Birds sang in rhythms that echoed the song of the roots.
And for the first time in an age, the Heartroot beneath the earth pulsed not in sorrow, but in serenity.
Its song rose through the soil, through the tree, through the petals that drifted across the waking world — a lullaby not for endings, but for beginnings.
Those who listened could almost hear the words, though they were older than language:
> "Dream softly, for even the fallen may bloom again." 🌸