The Prince of Tennis: Serene, Drifting Clouds

The house looked as if it had only recently been built, yet it still gave off the musty smell of wood. A few cacti sat on the windowsill, surrounded by spider plants. The delicate asparagus ferns looked elegant beside clusters of irises. In his memories, there seemed to be a place like this, always filled with the faint scent of medicinal herbs. But some memories fade with time, while others are deliberately forgotten. Kunimitsu Tezuka had always been far too forthright. With the world before him blurred, he sat upright at the wooden table, unwilling to let even his back bend a fraction. He was used to living this way. But habit is the most frightening thing of all, just like him. Theme: