Hokuto was nine the first time he had the dream.
He was standing on a beach, barefoot in the sand, the waves whispering quietly at his feet. The sky above him was painted gold — not just from the setting sun, but with that surreal glow dreams always seemed to have. Warm, soft, endless.
Someone was laughing beside him. A boy. He couldn’t see his face, but the sound was so achingly familiar it twisted something deep in his chest.
He didn’t know why it hurt — only that it did. The kind of hurt that reached somewhere beyond understanding, like his heart had been bruised before he ever knew love.
He turned to look.
But the boy was already walking away.
No name. No goodbye. Just the sight of someone fading into golden light, like a memory being pulled back underwater.
Hokuto woke up crying.
He couldn’t explain it. Not to his parents. Not to himself. Just that something in him felt unfinished . Like a sentence left hanging. A goodbye never spoken.
His parents told him it was just a dream. Nothing more.
But it came back.
Every summer.
The same beach. The same light.
A porch.
A boy.
A feeling that something was waiting for him.
And a goodbye that never quite finished.
He didn’t remember much. Not really.
Just the echoes.
Feelings that didn’t belong to him — or maybe they did, once, in another life he’d somehow misplaced.
There was a loneliness that clung to him in quiet moments. One that didn’t feel born from now, but from something further back. Something deeper. Something that had already ended.
A longing, too. Heavy and shapeless. For something — or someone — he didn’t know he’d lost.
And the ocean.
God, the ocean.
It called to him in ways he couldn’t explain. Like a whisper just under the waves.
He felt drawn to it, but he couldn’t stand to look at it too long.
Every time he tried, something in his chest clenched, like grief trying to surface.
He didn’t talk about it anymore.
Not with his parents. Not with his friends.
He just carried it. Quietly.
Like a story his heart remembered, even if his head had long since forgotten the words.
A memory made of saltwater and silence.
Hokuto met Taiga in high school.
Transfer student. Quiet. Sharp-eyed.
The kind of presence that didn’t try to take up space, but somehow did anyway.
He had this awkward habit of staring at Hokuto — like he was trying to solve a puzzle no one else could see.
Hokuto stared back.
Because Taiga looked... familiar.
Not in the usual way.
Not like, “I’ve seen you before.”
More like, “I’ve missed you forever.”
And it unnerved him.
It thrilled him.
There was something in the way Taiga carried himself — like he was always on the edge of remembering something too painful to say out loud.
They were assigned to the same literature project two weeks later.
Hokuto had expected awkward silence.
Instead, they argued. A lot.
Over themes, metaphors, the emotional meaning behind a single comma.
But they also laughed.
Sometimes too hard. Sometimes too long.
One afternoon, while they were going over lines by the window, Hokuto made a dumb pun about the ocean.
“Guess we’re just tide to each other now,” he said with a crooked grin, clearly proud of himself.
It was the kind of joke no one should laugh at.
But Taiga didn’t even smile.
He just froze — the pen slipping slightly in his hand.
For a moment, he looked like someone had whispered a secret into his ear.
Like the words meant something more than they should.
Something real.
Something remembered.
Then Taiga blinked, shook his head, and forced a soft laugh.
“That was awful,” he muttered.
But his voice was too quiet.
And his eyes didn’t quite meet Hokuto’s anymore.
After that, something shifted.
Not out loud.
Not in words.
But in the way Taiga started sitting a little closer.
In how he stopped staring and started watching.
In how Hokuto stopped feeling afraid to look back.
Weeks later, they sat alone in an empty music room.
Taiga was fiddling with a guitar, plucking out notes that didn’t belong to any song.
Hokuto sat nearby, chin resting on his hand, watching the rain slide down the windows like it was trying to remember something, too.
The silence between them was easy now. Familiar.
But underneath it, something buzzed. Waiting.
“Do you believe in past lives?” Taiga asked suddenly, fingers stilling against the strings.
Hokuto’s breath caught. His chest tightened before he could stop it.
“Why?” he asked, careful.
Taiga shrugged, but his voice was too quiet.
“I don’t know. Just… sometimes, I feel like I’ve already met you.”
Hokuto looked at him then — really looked.
The curve of his jaw. The tilt of his head. The way he never quite sat still when he was nervous.
It was all new.
And it wasn’t.
“I’ve been dreaming of you since I was nine,” Hokuto said softly.
That made Taiga stop.
He looked up, and their eyes locked.
For a second, neither of them moved.
And then—
The porch.
The sea.
The songs.
The storm.
The laughter.
The tears.
The last summer.
The last breath.
It all came rushing back, crashing over them like a wave they hadn’t seen coming.
Taiga dropped the guitar. The sound echoed sharp against the walls.
“Taiga…” Hokuto stood slowly. His voice shook. “Do you remember?”
Taiga’s lips parted, but no words came out. He nodded.
Once.
His eyes were wide, glassy. Like he wasn’t sure if he was going to cry or laugh.
“I waited,” he whispered. “I didn’t know for what. But I waited.”
Hokuto took a step closer.
“So did I.”
Neither of them said the rest.
They didn’t have to.
Some love stories are so strong, they echo across lifetimes.
And in this one —
There were no illnesses.
No goodbyes.
Just two boys, reunited at last.
It was supposed to be a class trip.
Just one night at a cheap inn in some random coastal town.
Sightseeing. Group projects. A break from homework.
But the moment Hokuto stepped off the bus and the sea breeze hit his face—
He froze.
The wind carried something with it.
Salt. Lavender.
Memory.
His breath caught in his chest before he even realized why.
He knew this scent.
He knew this wind.
It wasn’t déjà vu.
It was remembrance.
A porch with peeling paint.
A summer too bright.
A goodbye that still echoed inside his bones.
Beside him, Taiga stood silent, staring out toward the shoreline like it had whispered his name.
His eyes were wide. His hands trembling slightly at his sides.
Hokuto glanced at him — and something twisted in his chest.
That look.
That exact look.
Like Taiga was a boy standing on the edge of the past, staring down at something he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.
“It’s the same,” Hokuto whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
Taiga nodded.
Slowly. Quietly.
“I know.”
They didn’t say anything else.
They didn’t have to.
The sea had already spoken for them.
That evening, they slipped away from the group.
No map. No GPS.
Just silence and footsteps crunching through overgrown grass.
As if their bodies remembered what their minds couldn’t.
Taiga walked slightly ahead, but he wasn’t leading.
Not really.
They both just knew.
The wind grew softer as they climbed the hill. The ocean hummed somewhere behind them.
And then—
Taiga stopped.
“There.”
At the top, half-swallowed by time, stood an old house.
The wood faded grey.
Porch worn smooth at the edges.
Shutters still clinging to hints of blue.
It looked like a memory.
Abandoned, quiet.
But not to them.
Never to them.
Hokuto stepped forward first. His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob — fingers hovering like he was afraid it might disappear.
“Wait,” Taiga whispered behind him.
But it was too late.
The door creaked open.
The scent hit them instantly — old wood, ocean air, and something else.
Something warm.
Something that used to be theirs.
Dust floated in the golden light slanting through the windows.
The floor groaned beneath their steps.
And there, in the center of the room—
The couch.
The blanket they used to fight over.
The faintest trace of laughter, still clinging to the walls like it had been waiting for them to come home.
Taiga walked in slowly, like he was afraid the house might vanish if he moved too fast.
His fingers reached out, grazing the wall like a ghost returning to its body.
His voice cracked when he spoke.
“I lived here.”
Hokuto turned to him, eyes soft, chest aching.
“We both did.”
And for a long moment, neither of them said anything.
They just stood there, two boys in a house they hadn’t seen in this lifetime—
But somehow still remembered with their entire hearts.
They found the porch untouched.
Still facing the sea.
Weathered by years.
But waiting — like it always had been.
They sat down, shoulders barely touching.
Like they had a hundred times before.
And as the sun dipped toward the horizon, Hokuto stood up.
His heart was thudding. His breath shallow.
Then suddenly—
He started running.
Down the hill.
Through the grass, toward the tree line.
“Hokuto?” Taiga called, stumbling to his feet.
“I buried something here,” Hokuto said breathlessly, as he dropped to his knees beside an old log half-hidden by weeds.
Taiga’s breath caught.
“What?”
“A letter,” Hokuto said. His hands were already digging. “I don’t remember what it said. But I remember writing it.”
A pause.
“I remember crying when I did.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
Taiga didn’t hesitate. He dropped beside him, fingers joining him in the dirt.
Together, they unearthed something wrapped in faded plastic, yellowed from time but still intact.
Hokuto’s breath shook.
He peeled it open.
His own handwriting.
The same loops. The same slope of letters.
From another life.
“It’s me,” he whispered.
His eyes filled like the tide coming in.
“This is me.”
He unfolded the paper, hands trembling, and began to read aloud.
“If you’re reading this… I guess I kept my promise.”
That’s when Taiga’s knees gave out.
He collapsed beside Hokuto, one hand clutching his chest like his heart had just snapped open.
“I remember,” he gasped.
“Oh my god — Hokuto — I remember all of it .”
The summer.
The storm.
The porch.
Everything.
Hokuto dropped the letter and pulled Taiga in.
They fell into each other’s arms, clinging like they were trying to make up for every lifetime lost.
Crying.
Laughing.
Breaking.
Healing.
All at once.
Two boys.
Two souls.
One love that death couldn’t erase.
And behind them, the waves kept coming.
Soft.
Steady.
Eternal.
The sky above them was black velvet, scattered with stars.
Behind them, the beach house sat quiet. Dusty.
But somehow felt warm again.
As if the walls remembered the laughter and the pain but still chose to welcome them home.
Taiga and Hokuto sat on the porch, shoulders pressed together, knees just barely touching.
For a long while, they said nothing.
Just listened to the sea breathing.
The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled.
The kind that felt like healing.
Taiga held the letter in his lap, creased and fragile between his fingers.
His hands didn’t shake as much now.
His breathing had steadied.
His eyes were still red but clear.
Hokuto leaned against him, cheek resting against Taiga’s shoulder.
“I thought I’d lost you forever,” Taiga said softly, voice barely louder than the tide.
Hokuto smiled, eyes on the horizon.
“You did.”
Taiga turned to him sharply, the ache flaring in his chest.
But Hokuto didn’t flinch.
“But,” he continued gently, “you found me again. We found us again. That has to mean something.”
Taiga turned away, eyes stinging again.
“I remember holding you,” he said. “When you died.”
Hokuto reached for his hand but didn’t speak.
“And I remember,” Taiga added, voice trembling now, “what it felt like. Like everything had been taken. Like I would never feel whole again.”
“I remember writing that letter,” Hokuto whispered. “Alone. Knowing you’d cry when you found it. But hoping… still hoping you’d smile again one day, too.”
A breath passed between them.
Taiga shut his eyes.
“I did,” he said, voice breaking just a little. “But not until just now.”
A breeze rolled through, warm and soft, lifting strands of their hair like fingers brushing past.
Hokuto reached into his bag and pulled something out.
Taiga blinked.
“…Is that a new notebook?”
Hokuto nodded and handed it over.
“Your turn to write in it now.”
Taiga laughed. Quite, shaky, but still real and wiped the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“What do I write?”
Hokuto took his hand.
Laced their fingers together, slow and certain.
“Write the future.”
And in the distance, the waves kept moving.
Not like they were taking something away,
But like they were carrying something forward.
They stayed on the porch until the moon was high, silver and still.
The night wrapped around them like a memory.
Then Hokuto stood.
Taiga followed with heart pounding, unsure if it was from fear or hope.
“I have to ask,” Taiga said softly.
“Do you remember… how you died?”
Hokuto didn’t look away.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
A pause.
“But I’m not afraid of it anymore.”
Taiga stepped closer.
Close enough to feel the warmth in Hokuto’s breath.
Close enough to tremble.
“This time,” he said, voice breaking at the edges, “you’re not going anywhere.”
Hokuto nodded, eyes soft and steady.
“This time… I’m staying.”
And then, under a sky stitched with stars,
They kissed.
It wasn’t desperate.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was right.
Like something broken had finally,
finally healed.
Like a promise had made its way home.
Later, they sat at the old table, the notebook open between them.
The moonlight spilled across the pages like a blessing.
And Taiga began to write.
“Summer, Year One
You came back to me.
And this time, I won’t let go.”
The first thing Hokuto noticed was the light.
Soft and golden, spilling through the cracks in the shutters like a promise.
The second thing was warmth.
A quiet weight across his chest. A breath against his collarbone.
Taiga.
Asleep, curled into him, one hand loosely fisted in Hokuto’s shirt.
Hokuto didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
He just stayed still, letting the moment wrap around him like a blanket he never wanted to take off.
In another life, this had been taken from them.
But not this time.
This time, Taiga was here.
And Hokuto was alive.
He pressed a soft kiss to Taiga’s hair and felt him stir.
“Morning,” Taiga mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” Hokuto whispered back.
Taiga blinked slowly, eyes still hazy.
“You’re still here.”
“I told you I’d stay.”
A pause.
Then Taiga smiled — barely, but it was there.
And Hokuto smiled back, because this was what they’d fought for.
Not just the remembering.
Not just the reunion.
But mornings like this.
Soft and simple.
Full of love that didn’t have to be spoken out loud to be felt.
The kitchen was still dusty.
The floor creaked.
The cabinets stuck a little when opened.
But none of it mattered.
Taiga stood barefoot, sleeves rolled up, trying to figure out the ancient gas stove while Hokuto leaned against the doorway watching him, arms crossed and smile lazy.
“You’ve changed,” Hokuto said suddenly.
Taiga glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “That sounds like an insult.”
“No,” Hokuto said, stepping into the kitchen. “It’s not. Just… you used to hate mornings.”
“Still do,” Taiga muttered, poking at the pan like it had personally offended him. “But if I’m waking up next to you, I guess I don’t mind them as much.”
Hokuto grinned.
Silence settled between them again — not awkward, just comfortable.
Outside, waves whispered against the shore.
A breeze slipped through the open window, carrying salt and the scent of something old and familiar.
“You think this stove still works?” Taiga asked, eyeing it with cautious hope.
Hokuto tilted his head. “Only one way to find out.”
The toast burned.
They ate it anyway — dry and a little tragic.
The tea was bitter. Taiga made a mental note: next time, bring sugar too, not just the tea bags. But really, they couldn’t blame the tea, or the toast, or even the dusty stove. They were the ones who came to this house totally unprepared, only following nothing but a feeling.
But when they sat on the porch again, mismatched mugs in hand, plates balanced on their knees, it was the best breakfast Hokuto had ever had.
“Do you think they remember us?” Taiga asked after a while.
“Who?”
“The house. The waves. The stars. The wind.”
Hokuto looked out at the horizon.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But we remember. That has to be enough.”
Taiga leaned his head on Hokuto’s shoulder.
“Next summer,” he murmured. “Let’s come back here.”
Hokuto turned to him, eyes soft.
“We’re already here.”
Taiga smiled. “I know. I just want more summers with you.”
End.