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The Pinks: Loveliness Was Enough
A Whisper of Purity
“Dry, you say? — Tonight’s tale from the Hydrangea Dream Galaxy” “Hydrangea Salad 2”
Tuesday lunch break. Same break room, same group — and yesterday’s “incident” still fresh.
“I brought Salad Memorial Day! Mum had it on the shelf at home,” said Minamin.
“Wait, seriously!? Your mum!?” “No way, such a throwback…” Lucky-senpai and Akari-senpai looked truly surprised.
Just then, Miya-san entered the room with a proud little smirk, holding up a clear plastic container. “Tadaa! Just like I promised, I bought it!”
“What, you really bought one!?” “Of course I did. Yesterday, poor Minamin didn’t even get a bite. …Oh, and I see we’ve got the book now, too.”
This time, the hydrangea petals were a bold mix of pink and purple—more intense than yesterday’s soft blues and greens. Even through the plastic, they looked refined, elegant.
Akari-senpai: “It might actually taste better than yesterday’s…” Lucky-senpai: “Hmm, yesterday’s looked gentler. It blended with the lettuce. Today’s got a bit of red cabbage energy.” Miya-san: “Well, either way, it didn’t taste like anything.” Me: “Yeah, maybe because it’s a flower?” Lucky-senpai: “Still, it’s really pretty…” We all nodded in agreement.
And then, silence. None of us moved to eat it—just gazing at the salad like it was art.
Lucky-senpai: “…If no one’s going to eat it, maybe we should dry it and keep it?” Me: “Ooh, great idea. Especially since it’s Salad Memorial Day now.” Miya-san: “A salad-flower dried arrangement, made with the Salad Memorial Day book…”
Akari-senpai grinned. “Then it’s officially a Dry Salad Memorial Day!”
Once again, we all burst out laughing.
^^ Could this really happen? — Tonight’s Hydrangea Dream Galaxy
“Hydrangea Salad”
It’s Monday lunch break. The four of us have gathered in the break room next to the office as usual.
“Whoa, Minamin, what on earth is that?”
“Um… Hydrangea salad.”
“Wait— hydrangea? Like the ones that bloom at shrines?” “Yep, shrine hydrangeas. There’s an edible cultivar, apparently. I found it at that fancy organic‐select shop where our O-chic Section Chief buys groceries. First time I’d seen it, so I had to try.”
Lucky-senpai—her last name is Yotsuba, so everyone calls her Lucky—leans closer, face half curious, half alarmed. “So why the shrine‐only specification?” she asks. You said ‘shrine’ first, I think, but say aloud, “Ah—sorry, I mean the kind that often bloom at shrines.”
Inside the clear pack are pale blue-green petals, about the size of one of those help-yourself peanut-butter jars at a trendy supermarket.
Miya-san, two years my senior, squints. “They’re so pretty… almost too pretty to eat, aren’t they?”
“True, but they’re gorgeous, so I figured I’d post #HydrangeaSalad on Insta.”
Akari-senpai pipes up. “Put the caption ‘Salad Anniversary’. Total classic—people will love it.”
“Akari-chaaaan, Minamin has no idea what ‘Salad Anniversary’ is,” Lucky-senpai laughs.
“Oh—right. Okay, just ‘Hydrangea Salad’ then. Anyway, let me taste it!”
Before I can answer, Lucky-senpai—the oldest—snatches a blossom and munches it. Akari-senpai and Miya-san dive in right after.
“H-hey, that’s my lunch!” I yelp. All that’s left in the pack, apart from a few lettuce leaves, is a single lonely floret.
“It’s like we all chipped in to buy it!” Lucky-senpai grins. “I’ll grab you another tomorrow, promise,” says Miya-san. “But this definitely goes down as ‘The Day Minamin Didn’t Get Her Salad’,” Lucky and Akari declare in unison.
“Ugh, and I didn’t even get a photo—seriously, the ‘Hydrangea Salad I Never Got to Eat’ Anniversary!” Akari-senpai groans. “…Which makes this a ‘Salad Anniversary—Almost’,” I add.
We all burst into laughter.
“The Cloud of Gratitude”
I was born inside a warm lunch pouch.
Normally, we’re supposed to hatch beneath leaves or in tiny patches of shade—
but the very first warmth I knew in this world was the kindness of a boy.
He tucked us away—us, still unborn in our egg case—
deep in the bottom of his lunch pouch,
whispering every day,
“This is the warmest place, just for you.”
And one day, at last,
we were given life—
tiny, pale-green mantises.
His mother was startled and scolded him.
Even so, with tear-streaked hands,
the boy opened the window wide.
Some of us walked along the walls,
some were carried away on a gust of wind—
and I, too, rode the wind.
Now I’ve grown so much,
and at last I’ve arrived at the hill of Annabelle hydrangeas.
Standing atop a bloom of white,
I saw a sky stretching endlessly, all the way to the boy.
I raised my little mantis arms high and made a wish:
May this feeling reach him.
And that feeling became a cloud of gratitude,
drifting up into his sky.
“A Special Place”
^^ A forgotten song brought back feelings I thought I’d left behind— Tonight’s tale from the Hydrangea Dream Galaxy.
On the way home, riding my bike along the riverside path, a familiar intro started playing on a podcast. “Huh…?” I squeezed the brakes without thinking.
With one foot on the ground, I stayed there, searching for the song. Scrolling a bit, I found the title. As soon as I tapped play, the melody pulled the past straight into the present.
When I closed my eyes against the blurring scene, I saw the evening train station— and your back growing smaller without once looking back after a soft “See you.” My school uniform sleeves still hadn’t been swapped for summer ones, and I gripped them tightly, along with all the words I never said. Only the white hydrangea quietly turned its gaze toward me.
When I opened my eyes again, the white hydrangea was there, blooming like a continuation of that memory. The breeze stirred one bloom, gently leaning it toward me. Just like that day. The space beside the white hydrangea still felt special.
If there’s even one place where it’s okay to cry— maybe that’s all you need to keep moving forward.
“The Free-Spirited Stamens and the Night They Chased a Star” Tonight’s tale from the Hydrangea Dream Galaxy begins with a mischievous adventure—
“Hey, isn’t the sun calling us?” “It is, it is!”
Blaming the sun for their restlessness, the stamens leapt from their flower and began to whirl and flutter beneath the sky.
They rode the wind in bright sunlight, whispered to clouds, slipped through tiny rainbows. When a sudden shower burst around them, they bounced between the raindrops— “Can’t catch me!” they laughed, or sniffled when they missed and got drenched.
So the day drifted by in carefree joy.
At dusk a single star, wrapped in pale-blue light, glimmered far away.
“Look, doesn’t that star shine just like our own flower?” “Let’s chase it!”
Off they bounded, skipping across the waves. Yet the star sailed farther and farther— until it vanished beyond the far side of the sea.
“Uh-oh…” “Where are we?”
Their flower was nowhere in sight. The night sky felt endless, the sea too dark and wide.
Then— “A shooting star will pass soon. Follow it and you might find your way home,” whispered a twinkling star with golden eyes.
They dashed after the tail of the shooting star. “It’s so fast!” “Jump, jump!” “Don’t give up!” But the streak of light fled into the distance, and once more slipped behind the sea.
Uneasily, the stamens let their eyes meet.
In the hush, a deep voice rumbled: “Home is the place that shines.”
They looked up. A white lighthouse wearing a red hat was sweeping its beam across the water, slow and steady.
At the end of that gleam lay the curve of a familiar shore— the tip of a little cape where their own flower waited. “Let’s go home!”
Catching the wind, they raced along the shining path of the lighthouse, bounding and laughing all the way. At last they found their flower and slipped back, one by one, into their rightful places.
Settling down, they felt the blue hydrangea petals fold around them like a quiet blanket.
Thus the stamens’ wild day melted into a warm and gentle bedtime. High above, the stars twinkled softly, guiding them into peaceful sleep.
“An Unbroken Current”
When the girl whispered the spell, a gentle morning light wrapped around her once more. The next moment she found herself standing on the present-day shore of Senjō-gahama. A soft breeze skimmed the lake, and clusters of candelabra primulas swayed in silence.
There it was still—an old, rust-eaten gear, poised like a lone piece of sculpture. From the nearby trail she caught scraps of hikers’ conversation.
“This area was turned into a national park during the war. Officially it was for conservation, but rumor says the army was doing something with the lake. That gear is supposed to be a leftover from all that.”
Their voices drifted away on the wind. The girl glanced at the gear— and a burst of light flooded her vision. For an instant a strange scene poured into her mind:
Blinding gears, lined up in mist, turning slowly. Unknown machines wreathed in vapor rising from underground. Thick steel cables snaking into the forest. A vast black silhouette floating on the lake.
Was it built to seal the ancient battle? Or to begin it anew? Was it only ninety years ago, or from an age when gods still walked the land? She could no longer tell—
Now a father and child’s voices replaced the fading talk.
“One-two-six-nine—primu-la!” “Right—this is the highest lake in Japan.” “And it almost never freezes, even in winter—Ke-gon—”
Their words melted into the wind, smaller and smaller. The girl murmured to herself:
“1269… hi-fu-mi—almost a rhyme. A lake that won’t freeze… Kegon Falls? Is that where these waters go?”
An unfrozen lake, an unfrozen waterfall— Perhaps tears from that long-ago struggle are still flowing into this water from somewhere.
The primulas, like a thousand gentle hands, swayed as if to say yes to every unspoken question.
The battle’s memory, the healing hands— were they dream or illusion?
Whatever the shape, a quiet kindness still lives in this place.
The primulas seemed to bow in greeting. The girl smiled softly.
And then—kon. She thought she heard the old gear ring again.
“A Thousand Hands, A Thousand Memories”
When the girl opened her eyes, she found herself in a space where the lake was wrapped in darkness.
There were no stars, no moon—only the black surface of the water spreading out quietly, endlessly.
From that still water, countless hands cloaked in radiant light slowly began to rise,
reaching silently toward the sky as if offering a prayer to the heavens.
As two hands gently met, memories began to speak.
They showed the lives that had been lost—
Wounded small animals, trees quietly withering deep in the forest,
and birds with nowhere left to fly, their wings flapping in sorrow—
These were the nameless, fragile lives that had vanished behind the chaos of war.
A single tear fell from the girl’s eye.
Then, one of the thousand hands softly reached into the depths of her heart and spoke:
“Until very recently, even a kind soul like yours would not have been allowed to come here.
That’s why now—we ask you for a favour.
Will you join us, and help restore the wounded nature and lives of this land to how they once were?”
Surprised, the girl quietly nodded.
Her body was wrapped in light, and before long, she too became one of the thousand hands.
As she rose far above the lake,
the girl bore witness to the memories each hand carried—one by one, with care.
“These are not all—but they are the thousand memories we can see.
And these memories are our wish. Please, let the world return to what it once was.”
Looking down at her feet, she saw the lake shimmer.
The flowers along the shore, the green of the forest, even the crispness of the air—
all gradually began to return to their true form.
In time, the thousand hands gently descended, separating from the girl,
each dissolving into the countless flowers blooming by the lake.
And then—
those blossoms, one after another, began to open wide like gentle palms,
and became… primula.
One of them softly spoke to the girl:
“Thank you—for listening to our wish. Now, it’s time to speak the spell.”
From the field of primula, that familiar metallic “kon” rang out once more.
“Hifumi Muku Kuna.”
The space around the girl began to tremble—gently, faintly, like a sigh of light.
“The Memory of the Battlefield”
In the next moment, the world lurched sideways. The air creaked and warped, and all the surrounding light and sound froze for just a breath.
Then her vision opened wide— the smell of scorched earth, the choking heat, the roars of rage and the thunder of violent collisions echoed around her.
At the centre stood a long, black shadow, and a creature clad in iron armour with a hundred legs.
It was a battle between ancient beings, fighting over the source of water.
The sky split apart, the ground trembled, claws flew like arrows, and fangs clashed like swords.
The girl stood frozen. She held her breath and watched the overwhelming battle unfold.
At last, a single arrow pierced the eye of the hundred-legged beast.
With that flash, the battle came to an end. The victor: the long, black serpent.
But the cost was grave. The forest burned, and the water spilled from the lake, spreading across the land, leaving behind the marshy trace of what would become known as Senjōgahara—the battlefield plain.
And where the creature’s blood had flowed, a red swamp remained.
In the aftermath of war, what remained were the transformed woods and the small, quiet life of a flower still trying to bloom by the lakeshore.
Once again, a soft kon rang out in the distance. And that sound gently pulled the girl’s consciousness somewhere further still.
“The Sound That Beckoned”
That morning, the girl stepped into a clearing where primula japonica bloomed so vividly, it seemed as if the forest and stream had painted it into being.
From a rusted old gear nestled among the flowers, she heard a sound:
—Do you wish to know the secret of this place?
Drawn by the voice, the girl knelt down and gently touched one of the blossoms with her fingertip.
In that moment, the flow of the stream lifted into the air, its soft ripple transforming into a turbulent spiral.
The lake’s light turned to darkness, the wind grew hot, and the air carried the faint scent of something scorched.
The sound of arrows slicing through wind, the uneasy stirrings of frightened creatures in the forest—
And then, two vast presences, their shapes impossible to grasp.
What she saw was the memory of a battle once waged upon this land.
Even amid scorched earth and a darkened sky, the primula stood blooming—layered, entwined—as if protecting something.
One of them whispered to her:
“From here on, you may not know what’s real—dream or illusion. So remember this spell, in case you wish to return to the peaceful morning: Hifumi Muku Kuna.”
The girl quietly nodded.
Then, from within the rusted gear, a soft metallic “kon” echoed—this time, just a little closer.
“The Secret of Being Pretty”
As tonight’s tale from the Dream Galaxy begins—
what lies behind beauty, once the secret slips away?
The girl was known to be kind and beautiful.
Everyone gathered around her, smiling and admiring.
Freckled friends, those with tiny splinters in their fingers—
all of them looked up to her with envy.
But the truth was…
She confided only in a pink Annabelle hydrangea,
gentle and beautiful, just like herself.
“Whenever I don’t like something about myself,” she whispered,
“I give it away—to someone else.”
It was a secret charm, gifted long ago
by a magical fairy.
To stay pretty, she had to pass on
everything that wasn’t.
“Pretty means never keeping the parts you hate—
that’s what it means, right?”
Kindness, sorrow, regret—
she quickly looked away, blamed others, and kept smiling.
One evening, as the sky turned gold,
the pink Annabelle began to sing:
—
“What is true beauty?
It’s the kind you polish on your own.
And true kindness?
It’s strong—and just a little lonely.
But the spell of beauty lasts forever,
For gentle, beautiful souls will always shine.”
—
The girl froze.
“Are you… talking about me? You can’t just say that!”
She pointed angrily at the Annabelle.
“You’re not supposed to sing about secrets!”
The Annabelle smiled softly and sang again:
—
“The secret you thought you’d hidden
rides the wind for all to hear—
A secret tale that begins with
‘Don’t tell anyone…’”
—
In that moment—
her friends began to notice.
The girl’s hair, the hem of her dress,
began to darken.
Burnt hydrangea brown.
Dark spots spread across her,
like something wilting in the sun.
From the frightened eyes around her,
the girl understood what she had become.
When she lost what she’d built—
she finally realised:
She was the one who betrayed her own secret.
And yet, the fairy’s spell remained unbroken.
The rule was clear:
When the secret is exposed,
the most unpretty form appears.
And so the girl took root right there.
Her magic, her kindness, her beauty—
as if they never were.
Now she remains,
a withered Annabelle,
marked with blackened specks of truth.
“A Meeting with a Secret” From the Chronicles of the Primula Flowers
The very first morning I visited this place— the view before me felt as though a fragment of heaven had quietly slipped into our world.
Pale light, like drifting mist, filtered through the heavy mountain clouds, embracing the surface of the lake, which reflected the hues of the mountains and the endless sky above. And there, blooming quietly along the lakeshore, stood a crowd of candelabra primulas.
The swaying of each blossom, the shape of every leaf that made up the forest, the moss-covered stones and glimmering river pebbles— in all things, both large and small, I felt as though a divine presence gently resided.
So profound was the silence and beauty that I nearly forgot to breathe.
Then, all of a sudden— A bird’s call pierced the quiet of the forest. And from the long-forgotten, rusted cog nearby, there came a soft kon, as if something had lightly dropped upon it.
“Would you like to know the secret of this place?”
That’s how it sounded to me. As if the forest itself were asking.
“Dream Courier – The Otahuku Hydrangea Boat” There are mornings when you wake up feeling incredibly warm inside.You can’t quite recall the reason,but something deep in your chest glows gently,and the whole world looks just a little bit kinder. Perhaps it's because—a dream that got lost on its way home yesterday morningfinally found its way back,and left behind a little warm thank-you dream as a gift. A tiny boat made from an Otahuku hydrangea,sailing softly on a breeze,may have reached you in the night,just to bring a smile to your sleeping face. In the middle of the boat sits a cocoon,woven from stardust—and once again tonight, a lovely dreamwill be nestled gently inside,ready to be delivered to someone else’s peaceful sleep. Maybe it’s carrying with ita warm memory you hadn’t thought of in a long time,riding on a breeze from the Milky Way.
“Woof!”
That beloved someone who used to be right there by your side.
Now they live in your heart—
but sometimes, just like this,
they quietly watch over you from somewhere out in the Dream Galaxy.
⸻
Doggo [noun]
1. A beloved family member who senses you’re preparing for a walk and instantly lights up.
2. A beloved family member who lies about lazily but suddenly wags their tail like mad the moment you glance their way.
3. A beloved family member who is the only thing in the house that can’t be controlled with a remote—yet is still adorable.
4. A beloved family member who furiously digs their bedding, then barks once as if nothing ever happened.
5. A beloved family member who gets startled by the tiniest sound, even though they’re absurdly alert.
6. A beloved family member who swallows food in a flash, but always spits out pills at the end.
7. A beloved family member who always uses the right spot to pee—only to step in it moments later.
8. A beloved family member whose awkward face is the most honest expression in the animal kingdom.
9. A beloved family member who isn’t sleepy or ill but occasionally just melts into your hands.
10. A beloved family member who joins in with howls during your child’s flute practice—ruining it with laughter every time.
11. A beloved family member who stares at you intensely, but looks away the second you ask, “What is it?”
“My Other Sky” Something just felt… wrong.I’d kept that praying mantis egg warm inside my lunch bag,looked after it so carefully. When I’d put ants in a toy capsule before, Mum got really mad.But when all the baby mantises were born—she got even more upset than about the ants. Grown-ups change their minds all the time.Even more than I change my mind about the toys I want.One minute they say no, then laugh and say yes.Or say yes, then suddenly get angry. They say they care about me,but if they keep changing their words so easily,maybe that’s not really true. That’s when it happened.Something came down from my favourite sky. It had tiny, clear wings—glowing, or maybe just fading.And it said to me: “Shall we go to this other sky?” I didn’t really get what it meant,but I nodded and reached out my hand. Up we went, gently into the air,slipping through wind and cliffs,past silvery mists and gaps between the stars. We flew through so many nights and mornings,and bit by bit, I felt lighter and lighter. In the end, I only remember the feeling of a hand in mine. ＊ ＊ ＊ The fairy looked back. Warmth still lingered in their hand—but the boy was no longer there. In his place bloomed a single hydrangea,blue and white.The pure blue and white of a child.Like the colours of the sky he loved. The fairy said nothing,and gently let go. Then flew off again,to another sky. ――My other sky.Now, I’ve become my very favourite colour.
“Teardrop”
As tonight’s tale from the Hydrangea Dream Galaxy begins—
what if kindness lingered longer than memory?
⸻
Everyone called her Teardrop.
She blinked just a little more slowly than most.
Whether in sunshine or in rain,
she would sit at the far end of the long bench
at the same time each day.
In front of the bench,
there was a display of dried flowers
and a scattering of colourful potpourri—
arranged like a tiny florist’s stall.
Teardrop loved it there.
With her gentle, slow blinks,
she always took a quiet moment to rest.
One day, she noticed an elderly man
sitting on the neighbouring bench.
He didn’t seem to notice her.
From a faded envelope, creased and softened by time,
he pulled out a single letter.
He read it once,
then gently wiped the corner of his eye beneath his glasses.
Had he written the letter, or had he received it?
Was it joy, or sorrow that brought those tears?
Teardrop couldn’t tell.
But perhaps—
we remember kindness the most,
because it lingers the longest.
She softly closed her eyes.
And when she opened them again,
a droplet fell—quietly, gently—
onto a hydrangea petal blooming beneath the trees.
Was it a teardrop?
Was it the beginning of rain?
Only the pink hydrangea knew for sure.