Starting a new chapter in his life as a student in Tokyo, Haru never expected his world to be turned upside down. Across the street, he encounters Fujiwara, an aloof and enigmatic young man with a mysterious past. As Haru grapples with unfamiliar em...
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Aiko examined the photographs and felt something stirred in her heart.
Time seemed to have slipped away unnoticed. The baby captured in those images had blossomed into a confident young man.
As she sorted through the neatly arranged stack of other photos, she made a deliberate choice not to place them in an album, fearing the inevitable yellowing of paper. This way felt more personal, more intimate.
Among them, snapshots of the baby's milestones stood out clearly. From those early days of lying on his stomach to the tentative first steps and the momentous first day of Kindergarten. Alongside the photos, four memory cards held videos of his journey. She picked one, its blue surface marked with a number six, and inserted it into her laptop to explore its contents.
Several video files awaited her. Clicking on the top one, she watched a scene unfold: a boy seated on tatami, munching on dango while an elderly woman ironed clothes nearby. He appeared to be about six, with slightly curly hair and a sun-kissed complexion. His cheeks were flushed, remnants of tears glistening in his eyes, as if he had just stopped crying.
Little Haru glanced up, his face adorned with specks of brown sugar. Midori's hand extended towards the screen, gently wiping away the sugary residue with a tissue.
"Grandma, why do the other kids call me a demon's child?" Haru's voice quivered with vulnerability.
Grandma's rhythmic hand movements of ironing paused. "Ignore them, Haru-chan. You're not a demon's child. Next time they taunt you, just stay silent, alright?"
"But Grandma, they said I couldn't be human because my skin is dark."
Grandma set the hot iron aside and drew closer to the little boy. "Haru-chan, take a good look... does your mother look a demon?"
Haru gazed at Midori, shaking his head vigorously.
"And does your father look like a demon too?"
Haru turned to the family portrait hanging on the wall. There they were, smiling together – Haru, Takeshi, Midori, and Grandma – against the backdrop of Mount Yoshino in full cherry blossom bloom. They looked every bit the picture of a happy family.
Again, Haru shook his head.
"Well, then you couldn't possibly be a demon's child," Grandma said softly, her hand soothingly stroking Haru's hair. "Both your parents are human. You're Japanese."
"But... but..." Haru rolled up his jacket sleeves, revealing the skin of his arms. "If I'm Japanese, why doesn't my skin match my friends'?"
"You're unhappy with your skin color?" Grandma inquired gently.
"I don't feel like I look Japanese," Haru admitted, embarrassed.
"Being Japanese isn't determined by the color of your skin," Midori interjected. "It's about your actions and attitudes. As long as you're loyal to your country, respectful to others, resilient, love your family, and care for the environment, then you're Japanese. Understand?"
