Takeshi woke early on Saturday, the way he always did. But the air here was different. No pine. No frost. Just the low hum of a city never fully asleep. The house was still—too still. Tokyo's noise didn't quite breach the insulated walls of his aunt's home, but it pressed in all the same: distant traffic, cicadas, the occasional bark of a dog.
He moved through the hall like a ghost, barefoot and quiet, pausing outside each door. Kaori's room was dark. The kitchen empty. A note sat on the table in her precise handwriting:
"Groceries and errands this morning. Your uncle and cousin will be back by lunch. Take your time. — Kaori."
He didn't know what to do with time any more.
By nine, he was on the roof. Kaori's building was tall, older than it looked from the outside, and the rooftop garden was small but clean—potted herbs, a faded bench, a view of the sky sliced into geometric pieces by taller buildings. Takeshi leaned on the railing, watching the city move beneath him. He stayed there until the sun rose high enough to bake the steel beneath his hands.
He was back in his room, flipping through a book he wasn't really reading, when he heard the front door creak open. Then a voice—high-pitched, excited, and fast. "Mama said he was tall, but I didn't think he'd be that tall!" Takeshi blinked. Tiny footsteps padded down the hallway, too quick to be adult. Then she appeared. She was small—so small—with a mess of dark hair tied into two lopsided buns and eyes that seemed far too large for her face. Six, maybe seven. Wearing a T-shirt covered in cartoon snow leopards and a pair of ski-themed leggings, despite the Tokyo heat. She stopped cold in his doorway. Her eyes widened even more, which he hadn't thought possible. "You're real." He blinked again. "You're Takeshi Morin." He nodded slowly. She let out a squeal and spun on her heel, bolting back down the hallway. "He's here! He's actually here! Papa, come on!" A deeper voice followed, amused and measured. "Yuki, slow down. You're going to scare him off." Moments later, they appeared together—his uncle towering in the hall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a linen shirt and slacks that looked both casual and professional. He had a calmness about him, the kind Takeshi hadn't seen in a long time. Kaori had married well.
"You must be Takeshi," the man said, stepping forward and offering a hand. "I'm Satō Kenji. Welcome home." Home. The word sat oddly in Takeshi's chest. But he took the hand, nodded. Kenji had the grip of someone used to working with people—firm, not overpowering. "My daughter has been counting the hours until you arrived. She's a bit… passionate." "I'm not passionate," Yuki protested from behind him. "I'm dedicated." Kenji chuckled. Takeshi found himself smiling, just barely. Yuki reappeared at his side. "Can I show you my room? I have all your videos! Mama gave me them. You were so fast! Like—whoosh!" She flung her arms wide and spun in a circle. "Yuki," Kenji said gently. "Let him settle first." She pouted but nodded.
Kaori returned just in time for lunch. The table was already laid with cold noodles, grilled aubergine, and iced barley tea. Takeshi sat between Yuki and the window, watching as she slurped her noodles at lightning speed and quizzed him about skiing. "Is it true you trained with Olympic athletes when you were ten?" "Yes," he said quietly. "Did you really win FIS Alpine ski championships junior giant slalom in under two minutes?" "Yes." "Do you think I could ski like you someday?" He looked at her—this whirlwind of energy and sunlight, who saw no shadow in him, only stories—and felt something he hadn't in a long time. Hope. "If you train hard," he said. "And if you love it." She beamed. Kaori smiled over her tea. "Yuki has talent," she said. "She just needs discipline." "She gets distracted!" Yuki chimed in. "But only when things are boring." Kenji chuckled. "She'll keep you on your toes."
After lunch, they walked to a nearby park. Takeshi hadn't set foot on a playground in years, but Yuki had no intention of letting him avoid it. She dragged him into a game of tag, then declared him the judge of a cartwheel contest she won by default. She made him promise to help her build a mini slalom course in the hallway with cones and plastic bottles.
That evening, they took him out to dinner to welcome him—an open-air izakaya tucked under the railway line in Shimokitazawa, humming with laughter and clinking glasses. The smell of grilled meat and sesame oil filled the air. Takeshi sat beneath the orange glow of a paper lantern while Yuki grilled him with questions between bites of yakitori. "Do you miss the snow?" "Sometimes." "Was your room there bigger?" "No." "Did you have a cat?" "No." "Do you want one?" He hesitated. "Maybe." She looked satisfied with that. Kaori ordered far too much food, but no one complained. Kenji poured him a glass of tea, the gesture simple, quiet, and kind. Takeshi didn't say much, but he didn't feel out of place. Not quite.
That night, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling and let the city's distant heartbeat settle around him. There had been a time when every moment had been filled with training, with competition, with expectations that pressed like frost against his chest. But here, for now, there was none of that. Here, there was a girl with too many questions, and an uncle with patient eyes, and an aunt who left notes in perfect cursive. And maybe that was enough.
The next day, Kaori took him shopping. They hit three different department stores before noon, collecting everything he would need for his new school: a standard-issue backpack, two sets of the navy-and-white uniform, new indoor shoes, stationery supplies, and a sleek, matte-black umbrella he didn't ask for but Kaori insisted on. Yuki accompanied them, zipping between racks and shelves like a whirlwind. Every so often, she would offer her opinion—usually without being asked. "That pencil case is boring. Get the one with the husky on it." "You need snacks for your locker. Here—these are the best. Seaweed chips." "Don't forget a water bottle. Hydration is very important." She looked up at him seriously. "You used to train in the mountains. You know." Takeshi offered a few soft nods, sometimes a half-smile. He let her chatter fill the space. It was easier that way. At one point, Yuki paused in front of the school blazer hanging from his arm. "Do you get nervous?" she asked. "Sometimes," he admitted. "Me too. First days are hard." She held out her pinky. "We'll survive together." He hesitated, then linked his pinky with hers.
The following morning, Kaori walked him to the train station. The platform was warm and crowded, and the train screeched in with a gust of wind that ruffled Yuki's hair. She adjusted her little satchel, standing beside him proudly. "I'll show you where the good vending machines are," she said. "The ones with the cold grape juice." "Okay." "And the spot on the playground that gets the most sun." "Okay." "And if anyone is mean to you, I'll karate chop them." He smiled. Kaori gave him a hug that was more a squeeze of his arm, then a kiss on the side of his head. "You'll be fine."
The train doors opened. They stepped inside together—one quiet, one talking—and found their seats near the window. The city slipped by outside. Takeshi watched it in silence, the rhythm of it unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He didn't know what this new school would be like. He didn't know what would come next. But he knew Yuki would be there, bright and relentless, and that Kaori and Kenji would be waiting when he came home. And for now, that was enough.
One step at a time.