In the dim corners of Kyoto, beneath the neon glow and towering buildings, roamed a boy whose name was whispered in the shadows—Takumi Kuragari. At just twelve years old, he had neither home nor family. Orphaned by fate and hardened by the streets, Takumi survived each day not with dreams, but with instincts.
His life was a cycle of hunger and hustle. He had become a ghost to the city—seen by all, acknowledged by none. With no guidance, no love, and no anchor to hold him, Takumi found a single path he could call his own: stealing food. From ramen stalls to crowded bakeries, he slipped through security like smoke, vanishing with whatever his small hands could grasp. He was quick, clever, and precise. A professional in a world that had no place for children.
But even the most seasoned thief has ambition, and Takumi's ambition one day led him to Kyoto's largest food mart—a glittering fortress of wealth, guarded by cameras, alarms, and men in suits.
He slipped in as always, his thin frame hidden behind swarms of customers. The dazzling lights and orderly shelves overwhelmed him. It was a different world—sterile, cold, clean. His eyes landed on a familiar treat: melon bread, golden and warm, like a fleeting memory of a time he barely remembered. He grabbed it with a trembling hand.
But this time, something went wrong.
An alarm blared. A voice shouted. Eyes turned. Takumi ran.
Two security guards chased after him, shouting orders he didn't hear. His heart thundered. His lungs burned. Panic flooded his body. He darted into the streets, weaving through crowds like a leaf in a storm. But in his haste, he clipped an electric pole. His head struck metal.
Blood trickled down his temple. His vision blurred. The world around him spun. But he didn't stop.
His legs carried him forward on instinct alone. His breaths came ragged and sharp. Then, he turned—a sharp pivot into a crowded intersection. The honk of a horn split the air.
A truck, moving fast—too fast.
There was no time.
The impact sent him flying. For a moment, Takumi was weightless. Suspended in the air like a leaf finally cut from its branch. And in that suspended moment, his life unfolded before him—not in years, but in fragments.
The nights spent curled under cardboard.
The hunger.
The silence.
The lonely birthdays.
The cold.
Then, darkness.
Takumi Kuragari, the street child of Kyoto, died at the age of twelve—not because he was evil, nor because he was weak, but because he was abandoned. A boy shaped by circumstance, not by choice. And in the end, his final mistake was not a theft, but believing the world had no other path for him.
He died chasing a piece of bread