The faint scent of rain lingered outside Miyako's window.
On her desk, scattered pencils and sketchbooks surrounded a single unfinished drawing — a girl standing under a blooming cherry tree.
Miyako leaned closer, her hand trembling slightly as she traced the girl's eyes. "You're almost done," she whispered softly, as if the drawing could hear her.
Outside, the evening train rumbled by, its sound fading into the distance. It reminded her that time was slipping away. Tomorrow, she would leave Tokyo — the city where every page of her sketchbook had come to life.
Her mother's voice called from the hallway, "Miyako, are you done packing?"
"Almost," she answered, though she hadn't started.
She looked out the window. The last petals of cherry blossoms were falling. She wanted to draw them — every last one — but her hand froze. For the first time, her heart felt too heavy for her pencil to move.
When she finally closed her sketchbook, she wrote on the final page:
> "Next drawing: New York."