(IN THE TREE TOPS)
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At the very top of the grandfather tree the branches seem ancient, its trunks thick and twisted with age, wood spreading like open arms. Pink blossoms cluster so densely that the sky is barely visible. Metro’s platform is already taking shape high in the branches:
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Smooth wooden planks fit perfectly. Support beams wrapped in vines and blossoms. A very long rope ladder swaying gently. Lanterns hanging from branches like floating fireflies.
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Rose tilts her head back, swinging from a tree swing, watching him move across the platform with sure, steady eyes. Every time he shifts his weight, petals scatter around him like confetti.
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Rose(thinking)
(He’s building something beautiful… )
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Metro pauses at the edge of the platform, tapping the wood with his boot.
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Metro:
“This’ll be the balcony. Morning sun hits right here. And the blossoms fall straight down.”
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Rose’s breath catches.
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A balcony in a cherry blossom forest.
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A tiny home perched in pink clouds. She can already imagine: Metro leaning on the railing at dawn. Petals drifting past him. The whole forest glowing rose‑gold and surely she'll be standing beside him.
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Metro barely finishes securing the last beam before Rose climbs the rope ladder with a basket hooked on her arm. She doesn’t wait. She doesn’t ask. She just arrives.
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She lays down a soft pink woven rug. A tiny vase shaped like a blossom. Dried lavender and cherry leaves.Two carved wooden cups and folded blanket with intricate patterns. She steps onto the unfinished platform and immediately starts decorating.
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Metro blinks.
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Metro:
“Rose… there aren’t even walls yet.”
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Rose:
“I know.”
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She spreads the rug anyway.
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“But it already feels like home.”
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She places the vase near the future balcony door and the herbs where the kitchen corner will be. She sets the cups on the rug like they’re already sharing tea.
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Metro watches her, helplessly charmed.
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Metro:
“You’re impossible.”
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Rose:
“And you love it.”
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Moments later—
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The two of them settle on the balcony edge, legs dangling into the warm pink air. The rainforest night is quiet around them, the kind of quiet that feels earned after chaos.
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Crickets hum.
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The Lantern burns gently.
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The cherry‑blossom petals drift downward in slow spirals, catching the moonlight like falling embers.
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