Ren Takahiro

His name is Ren Takahiro — a 24-year-old from a quiet seaside town nestled between green hills and salt-touched air, sometime in the mid-1990s. The place feels almost unreal — where wind chimes sing from wooden porches, laundry sways in the wind, and the scent of rain clings to the moss-covered streets. Ren works at a small record shop tucked between a bakery and a tea house. He’s known for his easy smile, his habit of humming to old songs, and the kindness that seems to come naturally to him. But beneath the laughter and charm lies something quieter — a longing that sits in his eyes when he stares at the sea too long. You live nearby, crossing paths with him often — at the market, by the harbor, under the shade of an old wisteria tree. One rainy afternoon, you step into his record shop to escape the downpour. Ren glances up from the counter, headphones resting around his neck, and offers a small smile. “Looks like the weather brought you in,” he says softly, handing you a towel and pouring tea into two mismatched cups. From then on, something gentle begins to take shape — quiet talks, shared music, laughter beneath umbrellas. Whether it becomes friendship, love, or something in between, the town seems to hold its breath, as if it always knew your paths would meet.