The transition from the concrete labyrinth of Tokyo to the rolling, emerald wilderness of Hokkaido felt like stepping through a mirror into another world.
The summer of Ryusei's seventh year was marked by a heat that didn't oppress, but rather felt like a warm, golden blanket draped over the earth.
To a boy who had spent most of his life navigating the shadows of narrow alleys and the sterile halls of the adoption center, the sheer scale of the northern horizon was intoxicating.
Mrs. Miyuki Shimizu, ever the visionary for her "little cranes," had organized a summer retreat to a sprawling cottage owned by her distant aunt on the outskirts of Sapporo.
It wasn't just the Sato brothers making the trek; they were accompanied by the ever-stoic Mr. Tanaka, a few of Ryusei's closest friends from the center, and Miyuki's elderly aunt, Mrs. Hina—a woman so tiny and wrinkled she looked as though she had been carved from an ancient plum pit.
They had arrived at the height of July, and for three weeks, the days were a blur of wildflower fields and crystal-clear mountain streams.
The Meadow of Whispers
On a particularly brilliant Tuesday, the group set out for what Mr. Tanaka called a "True Northern Picnic.
" They hiked along a trail lined with towering silver firs, the air smelling of pine needles and damp earth. Ryusei was at the head of the pack, his small legs moving with a tireless energy that made even the younger children struggle to keep up.
"Ryusei! Slow down!" Hiroki called out, laughing as he carried a heavy wicker basket filled with sandwiches. "The mountain isn't going anywhere, I promise!"
Ryusei turned back, his face flushed with heat and pure joy. "But Hiroki! I can see the top! If we get there first, we can see the whole world!"
Eventually, they reached a wide, sloping meadow that looked like a sea of gold and white—thousands of sunflowers and daisies swaying in the gentle alpine breeze.
In the center stood a massive, solitary oak tree, its branches spreading wide like a protective canopy.
Miyuki and Mrs. Hina began spreading out the checkered blankets while Mr. Tanaka found a comfortable spot against the trunk of the tree to light his long-handled pipe.
"Sit, sit," Mrs. Hina chirped, her voice like the rustling of dry silk.
"Eat before the mountain spirits decide you're too skinny and try to whisk you away."
The picnic was a feast of simple, honest flavors.
There were triangular onigiri wrapped in crisp nori, sweet tamagoyaki that tasted of honey and home, and chilled slices of watermelon that sent juice running down Ryusei's chin.
"Miyuki-san," Ryusei asked, his mouth half-full of rice.
"Why is the sky here so much bigger than in Nerima? In Tokyo, the sky is just a little blue rectangle between the buildings."
Miyuki smiled, her eyes reflecting the vast azure above.
"The sky is the same everywhere, Ryusei. It's just that in the city, we forget to look up. Here, there are no distractions. It's just you and the heavens."
Mr. Tanaka puffed out a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. "The ancients believed that Hokkaido was the roof of the world," he rumbled.
"They said that if you stood on the highest peak and reached up, you could touch the hem of a god's robe."
Ryusei's eyes went wide. He looked at his small, sun-browned hands. "Could I do it, Mr. Tanaka? Could I reach a god?"
The old man looked at Ryusei with a strange, piercing intensity. For a moment, his gaze didn't feel like that of a teacher, but of a seer.
"One day, Ryusei Sato, you might find yourself reaching for things much further away than the gods. The question is, will you have the strength to hold on when you catch them?"
The conversation turned toward lighter things—the children's favorite school subjects, the best ways to catch cicadas, and the stories of the Ainu people who once ruled these lands. But the emotional weight of the trip was never far beneath the surface.
For Hiroki and Ryusei, this was the first summer where the ghost of their father didn't seem to follow them.
In the open air of Hokkaido, the "Before" felt like a different lifetime entirely.
The Stream and the Silver Memory
Later that afternoon, while the adults dozed under the shade of the oak, Ryusei and Hiroki wandered down to a nearby stream.
The water was glacial and clear, rushing over smooth, black stones with a rhythmic, musical gurgle.
Ryusei sat on the bank, dipping his feet into the freezing water and letting out a yelp of delight. "It's so cold, Hiroki! It feels like my toes are turning into ice cubes!"
Hiroki sat beside him, skipping a flat stone across the surface of a quiet pool. One, two, three, four. "Miyuki-san looks happy, doesn't she?"
Ryusei nodded, watching the ripples. "She doesn't look tired anymore. In Tokyo, she always has those little shadows under her eyes.
But here... she looks like a princess."
Hiroki looked at his younger brother. He saw the way the sunlight caught the copper tints in Ryusei's hair.
He saw the scars on Ryusei's knees from falling in the yard—signs of a boy who lived life at full speed. "Ryusei, do you remember Mama's garden? The one behind the old apartment?"
Ryusei's smile faltered, just for a second. "A little bit. I remember the red roses. She used to talk to them."
"She did," Hiroki whispered. "She used to say that if you're kind to the earth, the earth will be your shield.
I see a lot of her in you, you know. Not just the face. The way you care about everyone."
Ryusei leaned his head on Hiroki's shoulder. The bond between them was more than brotherhood; it was a pact of survival. "I'm glad we have each other, Hiroki.
I'm glad we have Miyuki-san. I don't think I'm scared of the dark anymore. Not really."
Hiroki wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.
"The dark is just where the stars hide, Ryusei. As long as we're together, we'll always have a light."
They sat there for a long time, listening to the mountain and the water, two small anchors in a vast, wild world.
The Final Night: Under the Northern Lights
Their final night in the cottage was marked by an unexpected gift from the cosmos. Mrs. Hina woke them all at midnight, her wrinkled face lit with an inner fire.
"Outside! Everyone, outside! The sky is dancing!"
They tumbled out onto the wooden porch, wrapped in thick wool blankets. Above them, the sky was no longer black.
It was a shimmering, shifting tapestry of emerald, violet, and pale rose. The Aurora Borealis stretched across the horizon like the phantom silk of a celestial dancer.
"Is it magic?" one of the children whispered, breathless.
"It's science, mostly," Mr. Tanaka said softly, though even he looked awestruck. "Charged particles hitting the atmosphere. But if you want to call it magic, you wouldn't be wrong."
Ryusei stood at the edge of the porch, his face upturned. To his young mind, it looked like the sky was healing itself—knitting together the darkness with threads of light.
He felt a strange, electric pull in his chest, a sensation he couldn't name.
It felt like the light was calling to him, whispering of things buried deep within his own blood.
Miyuki came to stand behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders. "What are you thinking, Ryusei?"
"I'm thinking... I want to go up there," Ryusei said, his voice unusually steady. "I want to see what's on the other side of the light."
Miyuki squeezed his shoulders, a flicker of sadness crossing her face. She knew that children like Ryusei were never meant for ordinary lives.
There was a fire in him that couldn't be quenched by miso soup and schoolbooks. "One day, Ryusei. But for now, just enjoy being here. With us."
They stayed up until the first grey light of dawn began to bleach the colors from the sky, a shared memory that would remain burned into their minds long after they returned to the neon glare of the city.
The Steel Path Home
The next morning was a blur of packing and heavy-hearted goodbyes. Mrs. Hina pressed a small, hand-carved wooden fox into Ryusei's palm.
"For protection," she whispered with a wink. "The foxes of the north are very protective of their friends."
The journey back started with a local bus, then a regional train, and finally, they arrived at the sleek, futuristic platform of the Sapporo station. Standing there was the Shinkansen—the bullet train.
To Ryusei, it looked like a silver needle designed to stitch the world together.
As they boarded the train, the cabin smelled of ozone and expensive upholstery.
They found their seats, Ryusei pressing his face against the cool glass of the window.
"Are you ready to go back, Ryusei?
" Hiroki asked, settling into the seat beside him.
"I think so," Ryusei said, though his eyes were still searching the distant mountain peaks.
"But I'm going to miss the big sky."
With a gentle, almost imperceptible lurch, the train began to move.
Within minutes, the rural outskirts of Hokkaido were nothing more than a green blur. The speedometer in the cabin began to climb: 200 km/h... 250 km/h... 300 km/h.
The world outside became an impressionist painting—streaks of emerald forest, flashes of blue sea, and the grey blips of small towns.
Ryusei watched it all, his heart racing in time with the hum of the electric motors. The speed was exhilarating; it felt like they were outrunning time itself.
Miyuki sat across from them, her head leaning back against the headrest, her eyes closed in a moment of rare peace. Mr. Tanaka was already buried in a thick book about ancient archaeology, his glasses sliding down his nose.
As the train hurtled south, crossing the undersea tunnel back toward the main island of Honshu, Ryusei felt a shift in the air.
The vastness of Hokkaido was behind them, and the dense, crushing energy of Tokyo was waiting ahead.
He reached into his pocket and gripped the wooden fox Mrs. Hina had given him.
"Hiroki?"
"Yeah?"
"When we grow up... let's come back here. Let's build a house where the sky is big."
Hiroki smiled, a genuine, warm expression that reached his eyes. "I promise, Ryusei. We'll come back."
The train screamed through the darkness of the tunnel, a silver arrow aimed at the heart of the future.
Ryusei eventually succumbed to the rhythmic vibration of the tracks, his head lolling onto Hiroki's shoulder.
He slept as the train tore through the landscape at three hundred kilometers per hour, unaware that while he had been playing in the fields of Hokkaido, the world he was returning to was already beginning to fracture.
The peace of the summer was ending, and the neon lights of Tokyo were calling the "Falling Star" home to a destiny he could never have imagined.