#venusvacation

in my opinion, she looks like kokoro with a new hairstyle, i think this is the most BASIC character i ever seen on  this game so far, she looks like “i wanna be strong, i love training and eat food” kind of girl basically mila,kokoro and hitomi mixed in a blender so you have mizaki or whatever tf her name is,

Before I met Momiji, I went through a great loss.

There had been another woman in my life before her. We fought fiercely, and after that, we broke up in deep sadness. The hole that loss left behind was large—for both of us. But I could not reconnect with her. And so, time passed.

A friend who had been worried about me for a long time introduced me to her. Her name was Momiji.

When we first met, we were both awkward and cautious with our words. Sitting across from each other with coffee cups between us, we smiled more than necessary, trying to fill the silence.

We met a few more times. We talked about little things—weather, favorite movies, foods we disliked. Bit by bit, the walls between us came down. One day, naturally, the conversation turned to work.

She said,

"I'm a restoration engineer."

Her tone was calm. She offered no further explanation.

Strangely, neither of us asked much about the other’s job. An unspoken agreement formed between us, as if we had promised not to cross that line. So I went home with only those two words in my mind.

Restoration. What does she restore? Buildings? Paintings? Old documents?

I thought about it for a long time. My imagination wandered. What if she restores food?

Someone who recreates lost recipes, failing over and over until ancient flavors return. Someone sweating over a stove, reviving tastes from centuries ago. …Does a job like that even exist?

I laughed to myself. Then another thought came. Maybe she restores ancient manuscripts.

Torn pages. Faded letters. Books so fragile they might crumble at any moment. Someone who protects the knowledge inside them. Someone who reconnects broken sentences and restores vanished time.

Wouldn’t that also count as a “restoration engineer”? Of course, I wouldn’t know until I asked her. My imagination might have been nothing more than foolish fantasy. It could have disappeared without meaning.

And yet. Just thinking about her like that made me feel excited. A little happier.

When I finally told her, she laughed. "That’s what you were worrying about? You could’ve just asked me. You could’ve called or texted… I guess I didn’t explain properly. Sorry for making things complicated."

As always, she was overly kind. Excessively polite. Almost unfairly beautiful. She said she would show me her work herself and invited me to her office—her studio, to be precise.

On the way there, I kept imagining again and again what “restoration engineer” really meant. Then, at last, I stood in front of her studio. When the door opened and I looked inside—I understood.

Ah. This job fits her perfectly. She was an audio restoration engineer—someone who brings old recorded sounds back to life. In the industry, they called it an “audio archivist.”

Drum recordings. Magnetic tapes. Vinyl records. The ways people recorded sound changed with each era, and eventually everything became digital: CDs, MP3s, WAV files.

Her job was to bring pre-digital records into the present, one by one. Restoring damaged sound. Establishing reference standards. Making memories that were about to disappear breathe again.

It was truly her kind of work. No matter how experienced you become, this job cannot be rushed. A ten-minute song always takes ten minutes. If you speed it up, it is no longer the original music.

So she always respected time. That was when I finally understood why she never rushed our relationship. She was someone who knew how to wait. Someone who willingly gave time when needed. That, too, was her.

Second, she was incredibly delicate. She noticed even the smallest things. She remembered trivial details. But she never used them to pressure anyone. If something had flaws, she accepted the flaws. If something was good, she accepted that too.

She embraced everything as it was. Even when I made mistakes, she smiled and let them pass, as if preserving those moments as part of our history. In sound restoration, perhaps the most important skill is the courage not to fix too much.

Imperfect sounds. Slight wobbles. Tiny mistakes. She never erased them. Instead, she preserved them in their cleanest possible form. Respecting the original. Respecting time and history. All of it was her.

Third, she was someone who returned forgotten memories. When I was with her, I felt at ease. Some people demanded constant tension from me. Some never forgave mistakes.

But Momiji was different. She never demanded perfection. She never tested me. She simply faced me as I was. Because of that, I felt like I had returned to childhood.

A time when I felt safe without worry. Like coming home. It surprised me that I could feel that way again at this age. Her work was the same.

Gently taking out the past and placing it quietly in front of people. Forcing nothing. Letting only those who needed it come on their own. Everything about her work resembled her way of loving.

Her life, her personality, her love, and her profession were all connected. That was why I never felt shaken with her. That was why I trusted her.

That was why I couldn’t help but love her. Because of her, I restored my ability to love. Feelings I had hidden.

Hope I had abandoned. Emotions I had sealed away. She revived them one by one. Quietly. Slowly.

She was the true restoration engineer—The one who restored me.

People need empty space in their lives. Those who run relentlessly toward a single goal are often portrayed like myths. Charging forward as fast as possible, as efficiently as possible, as productively as possible without ever stopping is certainly admirable. It is something worthy of respect. Something to be proud of. Something I, too, wish I could do.

But a person cannot sustain life that way. Of course, it is possible to reach a goal by working nonstop. Yet, taking short breaks is far more productive and efficient in the long run. In other words, working a hundred hours straight can never beat a rhythm of twenty hours of work followed by five hours of rest.

Helena is, by anyone’s standards, a brilliant career woman. Everything she does creates tremendous value. Because of that, she holds an important position and makes countless crucial decisions. Her career is always filled with remarkable achievements. That is the image people have of her.

So most people assume that Helena never rests. But as someone close to her, I know a little more about how she actually lives.

She rests, too. She is human, after all. But not in the way people usually imagine. Most would picture her spending money lavishly in luxury boutiques, savoring aged whiskey and fine wine, or flying on a private jet to ski resorts in Switzerland whenever she pleases.

Surprisingly, however, Helena fills her empty space in a very simple way.

A batting cage.

It is not a quiet place. The constant clicking of machines, the noisy chatter of people, and the sharp crack of baseballs meeting bats fill the air. Baseballs are shot rapidly along rails lined with rubber tires and fly straight toward her. Helena swings her aluminum bat with force and sends them soaring into the sky.

All the bats used here are aluminum. Wooden bats are avoided on purpose, so that the sound will be as crisp and satisfying as possible.

Crack. A clean, sharp sound. The ball slicing through the air. Crack. Another clear strike. And the small grunt that escapes Helena as she puts her strength into each swing.

Amid those sounds, her exhausted heart and mind are flung away as well.

Here, unlike the image people have of her, Helena lets out rough words without restraint. Of course, “rough” for her only goes as far as “Damn it” or “Seriously.” As she mutters those words, she swings harder and harder.

“Still… after this, I feel like I can finally breathe.”

After venting like that, she always adds that one line.

For many years, Helena has filled her empty space here. Perhaps because of that, she is exceptionally good at hitting baseballs. Almost every swing connects. Crack, crack—her hits always find their mark. At this point, it feels as if she is pitching the ball with her bat, sending it precisely where she intends.

With each crisp sound, she sends away her stress, fatigue, and stray thoughts.

Is it effective? From the sidelines, it certainly looks that way.

But I never ask her.

The moment I ask whether it really works, she might start thinking, Should I look for something even better? And knowing her personality, she would immediately begin trying all sorts of new things. Then I would be dragged around after her again. Honestly, that would be exhausting.

So this is enough. This place. This moment. This is what suits Helena best.

"I have to clear my head before I can go back."

Empty it? Well… I’m not so sure.

To me, after she swings her bat like that, she doesn’t look empty at all. She looks filled. Filled with energy, ready to charge back into her career once again.

Lately, I’ve occasionally thought about suggesting something like flying yoga to her. But the words always rise to the tip of my lips and then sink back down. That is only what I want, after all.

Helena suspended in white fabric, striking elegant poses in midair. I imagine it sometimes. Erotic, perhaps. Or graceful. Either way, undeniably “elegant.” Wanting to see that scene in reality rather than imagination is nothing more than my own desire.

There is no doubt that flying yoga would suit her.

But the way she is now is already beautiful and impressive enough.

Yes. Helena is a beautiful woman. And at the same time, she is a cool, admirable woman. If I had to choose between the two, I would raise my hand for “cool” without hesitation. That’s just how I feel.

Right. I shouldn’t project pointless personal feelings onto her. Helena already knows the best way to fill the empty spaces in her life. There is no need for me to interfere or try to move her in some other direction.

Disclosure All images, videos, and music used in this work were created using AI.

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Summer.

As we had promised before,

today we were heading to Katase-Enoshima Station.

Maybe that’s why—

She looked lighter than usual,

her outfit a little more daring.

A white sundress that seemed to hold the sunlight itself.

Thin blue straps resting gently on her shoulders.

…She’s beautiful.

My eyes keep drifting to her.

To be honest, I can’t help it.

But the truth is…

we haven’t even held hands yet.

It’s awkward, shy…

and kind of ticklish inside.

Come to think of it,

dressing like this—

she might feel a little embarrassed.

Should I take off my shirt and gently place it over her shoulders—?

…No, not yet.

It might surprise her.

Maybe someday. Just… not now.

She brings her hands to her chest, gently.

As if to hide something.

A hint of shyness in her gesture.

But I know what she’s really hiding.

The scenery outside the train begins to change.

I can see the sea in the distance.

The surface glimmers silver under the sunlight.

And that quiet, faraway feeling

briefly crosses her gaze.

We're almost there—Katase-Enoshima.

Once the doors open,

the ocean will stretch wide before her eyes.

Surely,

she’ll let out a small gasp.

And in that moment,

the most dazzling thing won’t be the ocean—

It’ll be her.

Even though I know I’ll see it soon,

this short wait…

feels unbearable.

Ayane. Waits, Silently, Always.

Lately, I’ve gotten used to the rhythm of office life.

And yet, from time to time, I can feel a soft gaze brushing against the back of my neck.

I know it’s Ayane’s eyes on me.

We’ve met eyes a few times.

But that wasn’t coincidence—it lingered too long to be.

Ayane…

Her words are sharp, but inside, she’s as transparent as glass.

Every time she scolds me, I wonder if she’s only trying to hide how she really feels.

And maybe that’s why… I started to like her even more.

I think she was waiting—

for the moment when I’d be surrounded by others.

She only watches me when I’m not alone.

Maybe she’s afraid I’ll notice what’s on her mind.

But I know.

She may think I haven’t noticed,

but her heart… is slowly making its way toward me.

And I already know. All of it.

She said,

"I'm a restoration engineer."

Her tone was calm. She offered no further explanation.

Restoration. What does she restore? Buildings? Paintings? Old documents?

I thought about it for a long time. My imagination wandered. What if she restores food?

When I finally told her, she laughed. "That’s what you were worrying about? You could’ve just asked me. You could’ve called or texted… I guess I didn’t explain properly. Sorry for making things complicated."

On the way there, I kept imagining again and again what “restoration engineer” really meant. Then, at last, I stood in front of her studio. When the door opened and I looked inside—I understood.

Ah. This job fits her perfectly. She was an audio restoration engineer—someone who brings old recorded sounds back to life. In the industry, they called it an “audio archivist.”

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“Lately, I feel like something about me has changed… but I don’t know what. I can’t figure it out at all. Did I get prettier? Maybe? But I’ve always been pretty, right? So is it even noticeable? Still… something feels different…”

She rambled on playfully. Then, like someone who already knew the answer, she slowly opened her palm toward me. Quietly. On her finger was the ring I had given her. On her ring finger. The exact finger I had measured.

Her cute little performance, meant to surprise me, wiped away all my exhaustion in an instant. It felt like stuffing my mouth with mint candy—refreshing, bright, overwhelming. Warm. Clear. Powerful, even though it was small.

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"You're here earlier than I thought." She must not have wanted to break the atmosphere either. Her voice was unusually gentle and quiet. "It must’ve been tiring coming all this way. Sorry for calling you out here."

She smiled shyly. "This is my relatives’ place, like I told you. It’s the busiest season right now. Flowers don’t bloom well in winter, so they grow them in greenhouses and supply them. That’s why winter is the busiest time."

She kept talking after that, but I could only see her lips moving. I couldn’t understand a single word. At first, I didn’t know why. Then I realized.

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