The Chichibu Valley was a land carved by the restless waves of an ancient ocean. Its terrain was never flat, and the surrounding forest was rich with timeworn trees that had witnessed the tides of countless battles and bygone eras. Their very roots were said to hold the remains of great fallen warriors, and out of respect, nature cultivated thick groves of bamboo near those who were never claimed—a living monument to their spirits, for bamboo was once shaped into the very shinai that wielded their legacy.
As our path continued to descend, the bamboo varied in size, shrinking to small sprouts as we neared the old bridge that crossed into Nagatoro.
"I'm glad they've outlawed harvesting them," Masato said, veering to the right side of the path to get a closer look at the shoots. I followed his line, maintaining my self-appointed duties as his chaperone. "The bamboo, I mean."
"Of course you are," I replied. "Otherwise, your father would have an endless collection of weapons to clobber you with."
"You're damn right about that," he said, shuddering at the thought. "I'd have the flattest behind known to Japan. Still, it's pleasing to see our village preserve such heritage."
I couldn't help but smile. Sure, fate hadn't been particularly kind to Masato's physicality, but I had always praised his mind. If he were conventionally good-looking or had a natural knack for baseball, I would be far beyond mere anonymity—I'd traverse this world as an invisible existence.
"Heh," I let out. Yeah, Masato was definitely destined for his role at the temple. It suited him.
"What's with that face? Your expression just turned uglier."
I fell back to his side, swinging my arm loosely around his neck and playfully smacking his chin. "Nothing. I was just considering that, in another life, I might take your place as the monk."
He scoffed, shoving me off. "Like hell you would."
The river was always flowing below us, a fluid instrument that served as the definitive imprint of our home. Water crashed against the rocks like a stiff breaker, while the dense trees began to clear out like heavy curtains, revealing a new stage.
The path now led to a flight of stairs constructed from moss and stone. I took the first two steps and paused, waiting for the reassuring weight of Masato's hand on my shoulder, signaling that he was balanced and ready to continue. We repeated the process, step by step. Once we hit the bottom, the landing diverged into a much wider, broader path.
It was a familiar sight to look across the river toward the far bank and see the local children still mucking about, playing tag, or skipping smooth stones across the water. The village was always at its most vibrant during sundown. Children playing, mothers finishing up the last bits of neighborhood gossip, and the fathers nowhere to be seen—their hearts thoroughly seduced by local pubs promising warm affection and sour liquor throughout the coming night.
Oh, how the times had changed. Men once possessed valor and clear reasons for conquest, victories, and banquets. If the ancient warriors could see our generation—subjugated and entirely content to let time bleed away—surely the forest itself would rise in protest.
I noticed the smell, a grand contrast to the wilderness. The forest air was pleasant and subtle, but here at home, everything danced frantically for your attention.
However, in my personal opinion, no dance was greater than the bridge itself—the definitive stage that brought all the great elements of Nagatoro together like a golden glue. It was the physical crossing between modern duties and ancient freedom.
I looked up into the sky. The birds were making their final flights of the day, and distant clouds promised rain at a moment's notice, though they seemed to be awaiting night's formal approval. The sun was mere minutes away from disappearing completely, gathering its last remaining breaths before diving below the mountain line.
"We are just in time," I said, gently wiping Masato's hand off my shoulder. Can't have the town gossip mills spreading weird rumors about us.
"I'd say we have exactly seventeen minutes until the silver line appears," he said, cupping his hands into the shape of binoculars to peer at the horizon.
We hurried our pace across the bridge, hoping to find an open spot near the café, its warm, rich aromas flowing into the evening air like a river of its own. The bridge was completely empty save for the two of us, giving us a rare moment of peace to enjoy the thunderous sound of the water churning below. As we reached the far end, the ambient voices of the locals urged us to find a seat in haste.
I pointed toward an empty bench sitting adjacent to an elderly couple. Masato made his way over to it, greeting them with a polite, respectful bow of his head.
"I'll be right back," I murmured, walking around the corner and ducking into a narrow alleyway where a decade-old vending machine hummed in a low, rhythmic vibration. I fed a few silver coins into the slot, enough to purchase two iced coffees. The machine's internal mechanisms ground together with an otherworldly, mechanical screech before finally spitting the tin cans into the tray below.
I headed back over to the bench, only to find that we now had company.
All three intruders were girls. Masato sat on the far right, his plump frame sliding against the wooden slats like a tectonic plate ready to settle. The girl sitting closest to him looked at him with intense interest, as if meticulously studying a sculpture in a local museum. Her eyes were lively, brimming with questions and an energy that resembled a blossoming cherry tree. The other two girls cast their eyes aside with complete hauteur, though, like the well-bred princesses of old, they were far too polite to voice their disdain aloud.
Naturally, I walked straight toward Masato's side of the bench, pressing the cold tin of the iced coffee against his shoulder to announce my presence. He greeted my arrival as if it were a prayer answered, immediately attempting to stand and offer me his seat. Being the gentleman that I am, I politely declined, pushing him back down by forcing the beverage into his hands.
"Yoshi!" the cherry blossom beamed, her bright smile practically shifting the seasons right there on the boardwalk. "We were just talking about you! Masato says you painted a literal masterpiece inside the old train tunnels!
"That is a remarkably kind way of saying I committed vandalism with spray paint," I replied smoothly.
"Nonsense, Yoshi Taka!" She pointed a sharp finger out, aiming it directly between my eyes. I was standing at a highly respectful distance from the bench, but her wild nature clearly recognized no boundaries. "I am absolutely positive your painting is so spectacular that nature itself will treasure it as a sacred relic!"
I held my breath, deliberately turning my head toward the rushing river, only hoping my fiercely reddening ears wouldn't betray me. Also, since when has her Japanese become this effortlessly impressive?
Masato covered his mouth, leaning forward to whisper to me. "Are you secretly training her? I'm heavily reminded of your dramatic prose when she speaks."
I responded with a silent shrug, a fresh wave of self-consciousness washing over me as I realized how ridiculous my own internal monologues must sound out loud.
"What are you two punks whispering about over there?" Alison asked with a dramatic pout.
"Probably something that is entirely beneath you," Kiori chimed in from the opposite end of the bench, ensuring she maintained the maximum physical distance between herself and us blockheads. I noticed she had changed her hair highlights again, opting for a fierce red—which, ironically, was the exact color I associated with her volatile personality.
"Alison, honey, we need to start heading back soon. It's almost your curfew," Erina noted softly, shifting a green Polaroid camera back and forth in her hands. She had always naturally taken on the role of an older-sister figure in our group, though when Kiori was around, she felt more like a stressed, divorced mother trying to keep the peace.
Alison turned her gaze back toward them, looking like autumn attempting to debate the calendar with summer and winter. "Oh, hush, you two! We have Yoshi and Masato right here. We are perfectly protected!" She flashed a dazzling smile, making me wonder if her radiant enthusiasm was secretly a highly calculated weapon of manipulation.
Kiori stood up, rolling her eyes with an exasperated sigh, while Erina gathered her pale white purse. "Let's not upset your mother, hon. And you know exactly how your brother is."
"My mother is preparing for her flight tonight anyway, and Palmer is an absolute ogre whom I fully intend to ignore during her absence," Alison dismissed lightly.
Wouldn't it be significantly safer for everyone involved if you just went home then? I thought to myself, though I was well aware that families of such extreme wealth and status operated on an entirely different legal system than ours.
Alison grabbed Erina's hand, her eyes pleading with a doe-like intensity. "Please, could you take a picture of me in the sunset? Right over there on the bridge?"
Erina melted instantly, smiling warmly at Alison's infectious charm.
Without needing a formal invitation, Masato and I trailed behind them as they migrated onto the wooden planks of the bridge. It took Alison only a few moments to find her perfect setting, running her manicured hands along the weathered stone walls as her eyes traced the river's violent flow below. She spun around to face Erina and the green Polaroid's lens, her silhouette gleaming against the dying light.
After two solo takes and a third forced shot with a deeply reluctant Kiori, I stepped forward and offered to take the photo for Erina, freeing her up to join the frame. She nodded gratefully, handing over the plastic camera.
As I squared my feet and lifted the viewfinder to my eye, I noticed the sun making its final intrusion behind the distant hills. Alison followed my gaze and immediately waved Masato over into the frame, slotting his bulky frame right between herself and Erina.
I took three long, steadying breaths, holding the air in my lungs to completely eliminate any tremors in my hands. I found my focus, waiting for the precise alignment of the universe, because just behind their shoulders, the sky erupted into a magnificent, bleeding silver light that traced across the valley like a benediction from the heavens.
Click.
The Polaroid ejected the film with a sharp mechanical whir. The developing photo felt like a tangible piece of time captured in my palm. I held it up close to my face, astonished by how a cheap little plastic gadget could render such breathtaking scenery in mere seconds.
Alison peered over my shoulder, her perfume hitting my senses. "You took it beautifully! You caught everything at the absolute perfect moment," she said with delight. Without even realizing it, I had already handed the physical print over to her. "But you know what would really deserve a frame?" she added, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she held the picture back out to me.
I immediately caught onto her hidden request. After all, she was my most demanding habitué.
I let out an exaggerated, theatrical sigh, tossing my head back. "Oh! If only my talents were actually profitable..." I reached my hands out toward the bleeding sky, clenching them into dramatic fists. "Must I traverse through this mortal life doing free favors? When shall I finally obtain the artistic realm that I so righteously deserve?"
I heard her giggle before she immediately matched my dramatic energy, echoing my stance. "Have I not given you invaluable experience? When will you finally recognize my immense appreciation for your genius!" She reached her hand out dramatically toward me, grabbed a fistful of empty air, and pulled it back to her chest.
Before she could continue her monologue, Masato invaded our little street theater.
"You two…" he sighed, a sound that clearly announced he had tolerated quite enough of our nonsense for one day. He placed a heavy hand on both of our shoulders for physical support. "I appreciate the free drama series, really I do… but my very soul is trembling with profound discomfort."
As we eventually turned back toward the village, passing the warm lights of the café, Kiori diverged onto a branching side path, claiming she saw her sister, leaving us with a characteristically bittersweet goodbye. Masato, realizing the social landscape had shifted, dropped back a few paces to walk beside Erina, who was thoroughly analyzing the Polaroids.
Alison closed the physical gap between us, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, when I open my own school here in Japan, I'm going to commission you to do all the interior décor."
She had never openly expressed her future plans to me before. I knew she had a soft spot for working with young kids, but I had always assumed someone with pockets as heavily lined as hers would dream on a much grander, global scale.
Before I could formulate an appropriately humble response of gratitude, a dark navy-blue Toyota Crown rolled aggressively around the cobblestone corner ahead of us.
Alison stopped dead in her tracks.
The driver, completely careless of the local villagers milling about the street, blasted the horn with an impatient, deafening shriek. A pale hand emerged from the rolled-down driver's window, waving at us with an authoritative, demanding gesture.
I glanced over at Alison. Her vibrant expression instantly contorted, her jaw tightening in raw irritation.
"Tsk…" she muttered bitterly as the heavy luxury car rolled to a brutal stop right in front of us.
Interactions with Palmer were never positive. He stood as a massive, hostile contrast to Alison's radiant demeanor—in fact, he harbored a far deeper, more venomous hostility toward Masato and me than Kiori ever could. I was entirely unaware of which foreign king I must have toppled in my past life, but I was absolutely certain Palmer was their reincarnated vengeance.
"Alison, it's pitch black out. Why haven't you clocked in at home yet?" he demanded, his tone treating the question as a rhetorical insult as his gaze flicked between Masato and me.
Alison, sensing his imminent intentions to cause a scene, faced me. Her hands dug into her pockets as she pulled out the Polaroid I had just taken of her on the bridge. She quickly pressed it into my hands, offering a silent, deeply apologetic smile before turning on her heel and slipping into the pristine leather interior of the backseat.
Palmer shrugged his shoulders, looking almost disappointed that she had submitted so easily without giving him an excuse to escalate things. Before stepping back inside the vehicle, he made sure to throw a glare my way—a challenging, dangerous stare meant to pierce right through me.
The Toyota sped off like a war chariot, leaving thick black tire marks in its wake.
I hadn't even realized it, but my hands were visibly shaking.
After that, the evening grew instantly colder, and the heavy clouds began to march across the valley by the imperial orders of nightfall. Erina quietly informed us that she was sleeping over at her aunt's flower shop down the road. I watched in silence as Masato chivalrously walked her to the very end of the street where the shop stood. Erina offered a polite bow, promising to greet him tomorrow morning when the new semester officially commenced.
My mind reeled, struggling to settle after the encounter with her brother. The only thing softening the edge of my sour mood was the physical Polaroid remaining in my hand, my eyes lingering on the frozen image between sharp waves of psychological discomfort.
I noticed Masato walking back over to me, his hands clasped tightly behind his back—the exact same stoic way his adoptive father, Hiroshi, walked up the mountain to meditate. When he finally reached me, his eyes met mine.
Our gaze exchanged absolutely nothing, yet everything.
"My place tonight?" he asked, forcing a thin, strained smile.
I nodded, slipping the photo safely away. "Yeah."