He went to sleep expecting a dozen views.

He returned to Tokyo, but every morning at 7:00 AM, he would open the stream. He’d see his grandmother shuffle out with her cane, pour water on the roots of the sakura, and look up at the camera with a small wave. It became their ritual. He’d text her emojis—a sun, a tree, a heart. She’d reply with a single phrase: "The buds are a little fatter today."

And somewhere, in the deep, cold sleep of the old tree, a million tiny promises are waiting for the sun to return.

"What is that, a birdhouse?" she asked.

He waits. He watches. He remembers her voice: "The buds are a little fatter today."