The bus hummed with that low, steady drone — engine, wheels, air conditioner — all of it folding into the same background wash, like white noise that wrapped the whole bus. The seats rattled whenever we crossed a seam in the road, and the overhead lights flickered as though they weren't sure they had to stay awake.

Its 5 PM on a Saturday, and we had the whole thing to ourselves. Empty rows, the faint smell of dust and old fabric, and the city sliding by outside.

Merry was the one who wanted this trip. Arashiyama's bamboo forest. She wanted to see it, compare it to the ones from her dreams. I've been there before. It's just a forest, a nice one, sure, but not exactly worth dragging across town for. Still, if Merry wanted to see it, then here I am, on this bus.

Golden light spilled through the windows, stretching across the aisle. It caught on the plastic handles, the scuffed metal floor, the worn patterns of the seats.

I leaned my head against the glass, cool against my temple, and let my eyes wander over the city. Families eating in small restaurants. Salarymen drifting toward bars, or maybe home. An old woman sweeping the entrance of her narrow shop, broom dragging slow arcs across the pavement.

Each scene blinked past before I could hold onto it. Window, moment, gone.

I let my head rest against the glass, cold against my skin, and followed the rhythm of it. For a second, it felt like I was drifting out of myself, sinking into all those half-lives passing by.

That's when Merry tapped my shoulder.

I turned.

Her hair caught the fading light, each strand glowing faint gold with the sway of the bus. Her eyes were soft, too far away to pin down.

"Ever thought how quickly each moment vanishes, Renko?"

"Yes, I... think so."

She gave me this faint smile. Not at me — more at the thought itself, or maybe at the window beyond me.

"You see, each moment we live in vanishes just as quick as a falling cherry blossom's petal. Look at these people outside, there are thousands of unfinished stories, waiting to be read by someone, and we only look at them through a small window."

"...So, what about us? Our... stories?"

"Our stories that we made with our entire lives... are nothing more than a glimpse to them. In other words, we only exist in others' windows too, until someone decides to open it and open the page."

The words hit harder than I wanted them to. Heavy enough that for a second, I forgot how to breathe. My throat knotted up, and before I knew it, my eyes stung.

The city blurred behind the tears I didn't want her to see.

I turned back to the window quickly, pretending I just wanted to watch the sunset— when really, I was just trying to hide the tears that glistened in the golden sunlight They rolled lightly down my cheeks, glistening in the golden sunlight, catching on the glass like small, fleeting reflections of everything outside

The bus rocked gently as it turned, the whole world tilting with it. The golden light stretched across rooftops, tangled in power lines, slipped into narrow alleys already swallowed by shadow. A bicycle bell chimed once, then vanished. A doorway opened, spilling warm light onto the street, then snapped shut again.

One glimpse, then gone.

Just like Merry said.

Our stories were glimpses. So were theirs. Until — maybe — someone decided to turn the page.