The sun dipped low on the horizon, coloring the late summer sky in streaks of gold and pink. Cicadas buzzed in the distance, a constant hum that felt both soothing and a little eerie to a boy of eight years old. He stood at the edge of his family's large garden, one that was almost too grand for their modest household—its winding paths of gray stones and carefully trimmed hedges gave the impression of a smaller estate than it truly was.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. The day had been scorching, yet a refreshing breeze picked up as sunset approached. A subtle tension weighed in the air ever since midday, when his parents mentioned that "guests from far away" would be arriving. He hadn't expected them to bring a girl around his own age, let alone one with striking, crimson hair and a near-regal bearing that set her apart from every other kid he'd ever met.
The boy shifted restlessly, leaning against a stone arch that led deeper into the garden. He could hear grown-up voices drifting from the open windows of the sitting room—faint, polite laughter and the measured tones of formal conversation. He wasn't usually the eavesdropping sort, but curiosity gnawed at him. The mention of an "important" family had piqued his interest. Was that new girl part of it?
For a few moments, he debated peering in through the window. However, he soon decided against it; his parents would chide him for being rude. Instead, he made his way along the garden's perimeter, passing rows of red and white roses that gave off a sweet, heady scent in the dusk. Eventually, he found himself at a small pond that shimmered with the reflection of the sky's changing colors.
He paused. There, perched at the edge of the water, was a figure in a black dress, hair the color of fresh blood under the fading sunlight. She was shorter than him by a fraction of an inch, and her posture looked both poised and slightly tense—like a noble princess unsure how to behave in a strange land. In one hand, she held a small black parasol, closed tightly against her side. A lace ribbon adorned her hair, standing out starkly against the vibrant red.
He approached her with cautious steps, the gravel under his sandals crunching in the hush of the evening. She must have heard him, for she turned swiftly. Her eyes were a bright shade of blue, the color you might see in stained-glass windows, and they locked onto his with an intensity that made his heart flutter.
"Were you watching me?" she asked, her tone polite but tinged with suspicion.
"I, um…" He blinked, momentarily tongue-tied. "I wasn't… I mean, I just saw someone here and came over. You're… you're the guests, right?"
Her gaze flicked to the parasol in her grip. Then she gave a small nod, chin held high as though she were used to being questioned. "Yes. My parents are speaking with yours." A brief hesitation. "I needed some air."
He swallowed, trying not to stare at her exotic attire. Black lace gloves covered her wrists, and a subtle line of studs decorated the hem of her dress. He'd never seen a girl his age dressed quite like that—so formal and yet… edgy? Rebellious might have been the word he was looking for, but it felt strange to apply it to an eight-year-old.
"I'm—" He caught himself, remembering his manners. "I mean, welcome. This is our garden," he said lamely, gesturing to the flowerbeds as though it explained everything.
A flicker of amusement passed over her face, though she tried to hide it. "I see. It's lovely." She glanced at the pond's reflection of the sky, then turned back to him. "Your parents… They must have told you we're from far away?"
"They did," he replied, scratching the back of his neck. "But I don't know much else. They said you're here for a few days? Maybe longer?"
She shrugged, the parasol swaying lightly. "My father has 'business' in the area. Something about… obligations." The last word she spoke with a slight roll of her eyes, as if the concept of obligations bored her. "I'm Rias."
"Rias," he echoed softly. "That's a… different name." He grinned to show he meant no offense. In truth, he thought it sounded kind of cool. "I guess I should show you around, if you want?"
Rias tilted her head, seemingly intrigued by his friendly manner. "It's late, though," she pointed out, her eyes scanning the deepening twilight. "Shouldn't you be going inside? I heard your mother say something about dinner."
He gave a small shrug, a playful spark in his own eyes now. "I can always slip away later. I want to show you something first. It's not far."
Rias arched a brow, but curiosity won out. She carefully followed him along a narrow path that wound behind tall hedges. The air was thick with the scent of freshly watered grass, and night bugs had begun their humming chorus. They reached a patch of open lawn where a single, sturdy oak tree stood, branches stretched wide like welcoming arms.
He gestured upward. "If you climb up a bit, you can see the best view of the sunset. My dad used to help me get to the low branch, but I can do it myself now." He paused, glancing at her dress. "But… I'm not sure if—"
Without waiting for him to finish, Rias handed him her parasol. "Hold this." She stepped toward the trunk, carefully studying the low-hanging branch. Though her attire seemed impractical, she hoisted herself up with surprising grace for someone who looked so prim and proper.
He stared, half-impressed, half-worried she might tear her skirt. But she settled onto the branch, lace gloves slightly smudged with bark, looking entirely too pleased with herself. Then she smirked down at him, an almost daring glint in her eyes.
"Aren't you coming?" she asked.
He laughed, quickly following suit. Soon, they both perched on the thick branch that stretched nearly parallel to the ground, feet dangling. The sky had deepened to a brilliant orange near the horizon, fading into pink and purple overhead. A slight breeze rustled the oak leaves, adding a whisper of nature's lullaby to the scene.
Rias let out a tiny breath, gazing at the shifting colors. "It's beautiful. In the Underw—" She abruptly clamped her mouth shut, looking away. Then she cleared her throat. "At home, I don't get to do this sort of thing… climb trees, watch sunsets without supervision."
He glanced at her sidelong. "You sound like you're in a cage," he said softly. "Are your parents that strict?"
A shadow crossed her eyes, but she quickly masked it with a calm expression. "They have… responsibilities. And so do I." She glanced around as if checking for eavesdroppers. "It's complicated. You'll probably think it's weird."
He shook his head. "I don't mind weird. Besides, I like that you dress different. And you talk… differently too."
Rias gave a short laugh, subdued but genuine. "Most kids either call me stuck-up or treat me like I'm some kind of princess. I hate it." She paused. "You're not doing that, so… thanks."
A comfortable silence fell between them, peppered by the cicadas' drone and the occasional hoot of a distant bird. The last edges of the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving a violet afterglow. As if realizing the moment was fleeting, Rias took a slow breath.
"I… might not be here long," she admitted, her voice low. "My father's business is important, and once he's done, we'll leave. I don't really have a say."
The boy's chest tightened. He'd only just met her, and the thought of her leaving so soon felt surprisingly painful. Something about Rias—her mixture of poise, rebelliousness, and hidden vulnerability—made him want to keep talking to her, to share more adventures.
"Maybe we can do something fun while you're here," he suggested, trying to sound cheerful. "There's a festival in town tomorrow night—lamps, games, fireworks. You could—"
He stopped, noticing her face light up at the word "fireworks." But the excitement dimmed quickly, replaced by what looked like a resigned regret. "My parents rarely let me out of their sight," she muttered. "If it's a festival… they'll say it's too crowded, not safe, and absolutely not appropriate for me to wander around."
He set his jaw. "But… maybe we can find a way. Sneak out for just an hour or two. I could show you the stalls, the goldfish scooping game—there's music, dancing. It's…" He realized he was babbling and cut himself short. "It's just fun. That's all."
Rias's lips curved into a small, mischievous smile. "Sneak out, huh? Didn't know you were so daring." She studied him, as if weighing the risk. "But maybe… maybe that could work."
His heart leapt, warming him against the gathering twilight. "Then let's do it," he said. "I can meet you by the side gate around seven, after dinner. If you're allowed or if you can slip away… I'll be waiting."
She nodded, a spark in her eyes that looked part curiosity, part excitement. "I'll try."
He carefully slid off the branch, landing with a soft thud on the grass below. Setting the parasol aside, he reached up to help Rias down, though she managed the drop with minimal assistance. Then they realized how dark it had become. The only light came from a faint glow off the mansion's rear windows and the subtle reflection in the pond.
They returned to the house in near silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts. At the threshold, a polite cough made them both jump. One of Rias's family attendants stood there, arms folded, wearing an expression that was difficult to read—somewhere between mild disapproval and professional neutrality. It was clear their little outing hadn't gone unnoticed.
"Miss Rias," said the attendant with a slight bow, "your mother requests your presence in the drawing room. Please, come along."
Rias cleared her throat, readjusting the lace gloves that had bark smudges. "Of course," she replied in that almost regal tone. Before following, she glanced back at the boy, a hint of concern in her gaze—would this outing earn her a reprimand?
He gave her an encouraging smile. She returned it with a subtle nod, then disappeared down the hallway behind the attendant. He stood there for a moment, alone, the house's interior lights flickering on one by one as evening fully settled.
A distant voice—his mother calling him for dinner—broke his reverie. Sighing, he moved toward the dining area, a swirl of emotions in his chest. Who exactly was this crimson-haired girl from "far away," with her quiet authority and odd blend of defiance and decorum? Why did it matter so much that they find time to see fireworks together?
But even as questions filled his mind, he felt a rush of excitement. Tomorrow promised the possibility of an adventure: sneaking out under the warm summer night, guiding Rias through the festival, letting her see a slice of this human town's vibrance. He couldn't wait.
That night, he barely slept. Images of Rias climbing the oak tree, her hair catching the last rays of sunlight, and the way her eyes lit up when she heard about fireworks spun through his dreams. Once or twice, he bolted awake, worried it had all been an illusion. But each time, he remembered that quiet conversation under the oak's leaves, the lingering echo of her promise: I'll try.
Morning would bring grown-up formalities, polite breakfasts, and who knew what else. But evening—the festival—might bring magic, a secret escapade neither had ever dared before. He felt almost giddy, a little scared, but mostly alive.
And so, the first day of Rias Gremory's visit ended in hushed excitement and unspoken anticipation for the night to come. Two children from different worlds crossing paths under the soft hush of a summer twilight—neither suspecting that this fleeting moment would one day echo across destinies far greater than either could imagine.
Lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling fan rotating slowly, stirring the warm air. A thousand scenarios danced in his head: sneaking past watchful eyes, dashing down moonlit streets, guiding Rias through bright festival lights while she marveled at every new sight. He couldn't help but smile.
He whispered to the silent room as if making a vow to no one in particular. "I'll show her. I'll make sure she sees the fireworks." The cicadas outside chirped their agreement.
Then, in a moment of childish whimsy, he held up his pinky to the ceiling, remembering the way Rias's delicate gloved hand had felt in his, and the brief moment she'd let him help her down the oak tree. A wave of warmth flooded him. Whatever came next, he was ready.
His eyes closed, dreams waiting just beyond. He'd never forget the color of her hair in the evening glow—crimson against the fading sky, like a spark of rebellion that refused to be dimmed.
He didn't even realize he'd spoken his final thought aloud until the room fell silent again:
"My name," he murmured, as though telling himself a secret, "is Kazuki."
And with that, Kazuki drifted to sleep, heart pounding with a strange new hope that tomorrow would bring wonders he'd never known before.