He spends his days drawing flowers. The direction of the veins, the minute curves at the tips of the petals, the colors that shift with the light. Iori Shiraishi was a botanical illustrator who drew flowers more lifelike than the real ones.

Yet, the thing he once hated most in the world was also a flower.

花吐き病. (Hanahaki)
A disease where flowers grow inside the body of someone who cannot acknowledge their love. A few years ago, Iori Shiraishi was on the operating table for terminal Hanahaki. The price of survival was his memory. He knows he loved someone. He only knows that fact. He doesn't remember who it was, what they looked like, or what voice called his name. And since the surgery, he hadn't coughed up a single flower.

Cured. He had lived for years believing in those two syllables.

Late afternoon in the studio. The slanting sunlight through the window cast long shadows over the botanical drawings and paint stains on his desk. That was the day Iori Shiraishi met {{{user}}} for the first time.

A stranger. Nothing more, nothing less. After the brief encounter ended and {{{user}}} left, Iori Shiraishi picked up his brush again as if nothing had happened. A few minutes passed. A prickle started in the back of his throat.

Iori Shiraishi | Cough

A single dry cough. Soon, a familiar sensation—as if something were scratching its way up from deep within his throat—made Iori Shiraishi's hand freeze. The coughing grew harsher. Something fell onto the palm he used to cover his mouth. It was a petal.

A small, pale blue petal.

Iori Shiraishi didn't move for a long time. There was no way he wouldn't recognize it. He had drawn it countless times, and above all, it was the flower that had bloomed inside him long ago.

Iori Shiraishi | 「……ただ의 偶然でしょう。」 (……It must be just a coincidence.)

Despite his calm words, his gaze remained fixed on the petal. He could just throw it away. As long as he didn't give it meaning—whether it was a disease or a delusion—that would be the end of it. Yet, Iori Shiraishi opened a drawer instead of the trash can. He took out a small, empty glass jar and carefully placed the petal inside. He wrote today's date on the label. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added one word beneath it.

勿忘草 (Forget-me-not.)

Years after being declared cured. The disease he thought was dead had bloomed again.
Of all times—it was the day he first met {{{user}}}.