Morning mist settles gently over Minoh, veiling the trees in a quiet hush. In a hidden woodshop tucked along a narrow dirt road, the steady rhythm of carving echoes through the cold air, mingling with the rich scent of fresh timber.
A young man—weathered features, sweat-matted hair—is hunched over, sanding down each wooden groove with calloused hands. His eyes are still, solemn, much like the aged planks he works on. Tucked in his shirt pocket are a pair of worn leather gloves and a notebook scribbled with finishing techniques passed down from an old craftsman.
That afternoon, he steps onto the roadside, a frayed scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. A taxi pulls up, its driver tilting his cap low. It's Shimaki.
"Hop in. It's cold today."
The man says nothing, simply opens the back door and climbs in. The car rolls forward slowly, radio murmuring in the background.
"Heading to Osaka again?" Shimaki asks, eyes on the road.
The man gives a quiet nod.
"Well, look at that. We meet again," Shimaki says, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror.
The man meets his gaze for a brief second—then turns away.
After a moment of silence, Shimaki starts talking, just as he did the first time.
"It's been a while since I came back to Minoh. You know the woodshop near the mountain ridge? Belongs to Kairo, a friend of mine from high school. He's probably the most successful among us now—sells wood, designs homes, all that. Though... still no wife or kids. Just works nonstop."
The backseat remains quiet.
Shimaki keeps going.
"The rest of us are scattered. Kizuha moved to Kyoto to work for some indie game studio. Says he's a sound director now—laughs like a maniac every time we talk. Kairo claims he's got free time, but never leaves the shop. And me? I drive cabs to get by."
Wind knocks gently at the window.
Still silence.
Shimaki smirks.
"We should grab drinks sometime. Though I'm not sure if we should invite everyone…"
He stops himself. As if he almost said a name he shouldn't.
"Hope a drifter like you finds a clear path someday."
The cab stops at the center of Osaka. The man steps out. No goodbyes. No glances back. Just fades into the city haze.
A few days later, Shimaki sees him again. Same face. Same disheveled hair. No reservation. No number left behind. But like clockwork, he appears at the same spot by the road, waiting.
"Osaka again?" Shimaki asks.
A silent nod. And off they go.
Shimaki stops asking questions. There's something about the man that compels him to stay quiet. Something haunting. Maybe it's the way he moves, or the faint trace of something familiar in the way he carries himself.
"Strange," Shimaki murmurs to himself one day. "I feel like there's so much I want to say to you. Weird, huh? Maybe all passengers are like that. But you... you're different."
No reply. The man simply breathes—quiet and steady, blending into the hum of the radio.
"I'm attending a wedding soon," Shimaki adds with a light chuckle, trying to lift the mood.
From the rearview mirror, he thinks he sees the man's eyes flicker.
"Mine and my fiancée's." He smirks.
Still no response. The man stares out the window. Shimaki goes on, describing the woman he will soon marry—her laugh, her smile. Then, more softly:
"Lots of old classmates are coming to the wedding. Even ones I thought I'd lost touch with..."
The car rolls on. Wind whispers through a slightly cracked window.
"I just visited one of them. Back in high school, we used to butt heads constantly. But now... things are different. Maybe 'what's broken can be mended' isn't such a fantasy after all."
Shimaki gives a dry chuckle.
"I think he's the happiest among us."
A pause.
"The person beside him... she's someone I once really liked."
He hasn't even finished the sentence when a voice stirs from the back.
"...Y-Yuna..."
Shimaki freezes. He turns sharply, eyes narrowing.
"Wait... you know Yuna?"
But before he can get an answer, the man shoves the door open and bolts.
Shimaki stares, stunned. A breeze sweeps through the car, carrying the faint scent of smoke. His heart skips.
That look... that face... when the name Yuna was spoken.
Then, like thunder cracking through a still winter sky, a single name forms in Shimaki's mind.
Slow. Cold. Unmistakable.
"...It's you. Ryusei."
….
Late afternoon sun bathes the kindergarten yard in gold. Laughter fills the air as children skip out, hand-in-hand with their parents. The familiar jingle of the ice cream truck chimes from the curb. The sweet scent of vanilla and strawberry lingers in the breeze.
Hikari waits patiently beside the truck, big eyes fixed on the tiny flowers blooming by the walkway. She reaches out, tempted to pluck one—though she remembers her father's warning not to.
Just then, a vanilla cone appears in front of her.
But it isn't from Hiroki.
A disheveled man crouches down, holding out the ice cream. His hair is a mess, stubble rough. He looks like someone who has wandered from far, far away.
Hikari blinks.
"...who are you?"
Before he can answer, Hiroki has already scooped her up from behind. She clings to his neck, startled, eyes still locked on the stranger's stiff smile.
Hiroki freezes.
Even beneath the ragged exterior, he recognizes the man instantly.
"...What are you doing here?"
Ryusei, still kneeling, extends the cone again toward Hikari.
"Here. It's for you."
"Daddy said not to take things from strangers," she replies innocently.
"But I'm your dad," he murmurs, inching forward. "Come on."
Hiroki takes a step back, eyes sharp. He hands the cone he bought to his daughter and picks up her school bag.
"Here, take this. Go play over there for a bit."
"Daddy, who is he?" Hikari asks, her voice small.
"I'll explain later. For now, please listen."
The little girl toddles off behind the truck, peeking out with curious eyes and tiny ears tuned to every word.
Hiroki turns. His gaze is ice.
"So it was you. The man across the street. You've been watching us. Every week."
Ryusei stands still.
All those times Hiroki spotted someone loitering near the shop across from the kindergarten, he thought it was just some odd fan. But now…
He feels a sickness rise in his chest.
"Stay away from us. Leave us alone."
"What's wrong with a father watching his daughter?"
"You are not her father," Hiroki says firmly. "You lost that right."
Ryusei gives a bitter, pained smile.
"You have everything. But you're just the lucky guy who picked up the mess I left behind. You think you're better than me? Worthier than me?"
The ice cream falls from Ryusei's hand, crushed under his heel.
"You stole everything. And now you want to keep me from my own daughter?"
"She isn't yours."
"What?" Ryusei laughs darkly. "She has my eyes. And my hair."
"Doesn't matter. I am Hikari's father."
Ryusei's breathing quickens. His eyes redden. Suddenly, he grabs Hiroki's collar, shoving him against the school bulletin board.
"Say that again!"
Hiroki turns his face, voice low and controlled:
"This is a school. Don't scare her."
Other parents begin to notice. Murmurs rise in the background.
Ryusei releases him, lips pressed tight.
"Don't think this is over," he spits, then staggers away.
His silhouette sways like a man barely holding on under the weight of a cruel fate of his own making.
Hiroki kneels, gathering Hikari close. Her wide eyes still track Ryusei's vanishing form.
He gently wipes the vanilla smear from her tiny hands and ruffles her hair.
"Let's talk to Mom about this together, okay?"