Another for the challenge of correspondence. The title is stolen from Christopher Fry's fabulous play, The Lady's Not For Burning.

Kazutaka, my friend,

Your sakura blooms in the garden. I take its growth as a sign that you still live.

There have been other signs.

Oriya pauses and thinks of the boy who came to him, thinks of characters burning red as hot coals on pale flesh and eyes burning green as firelit emeralds in the darkness of his rooms.

"He is not here, little brother," Oriya said.

"I do not seek him."

He leaves the letter unfinished, burning in the brazier that warms the room as he returns to bed. Beside him, Hisoka stirs.

There have been other signs.

~END~