The room stilled again.
Kumiko did not rush. She did not speak.
Instead, she walked slowly, gracefully, every step a whisper of tradition and tenderness. As though her presence alone completed the ritual, she moved like the hush before falling snow.
She kept her veil on until the last moment. Then, as she stopped before him, she knelt.
Her voice was like a mountain stream—soft, clear, but carrying weight beneath the surface.
"My heart has always been quiet," she said. "But when I met you, it began to speak."
Kumiko looked up at him, golden eyes shining like lanterns in fog.
"You never needed me to shout, to compete, to dazzle. You simply… saw me. Cherished me. As I am."
She rose, her fingers brushing against his hand, warm, delicate, certain.
"I do not have great words. Or fire. Or thunder. But what I have is a love that will never waver. A soul that has chosen you in silence… and will choose you again in every lifetime."
