Chapter 11

Wataru Takatsuki was going home to England after his first visit to Japan in five years. His nephew and his nephew’s student came to the airport to see him off. “See you, Uncle. Come again anytime, okay?” “Yes. You too, come visit me sometime. I’ve got vacancies in the apartment block.” Wataru and Akira hugged one another. It had already been many years since his nephew had grown to be as tall as he was, but every time they hugged like this, Wataru thought, He’s gotten so big. Akira had probably been about seven or eight inches shorter and a lot daintier when Wataru had taken custody of him. And now, he was such a fine adult. How mighty was the passage of time. Next, Wataru turned his attention to the somewhat aloof-looking student standing behind Akira. “Naoya, thank you for spending time with this old chap as well.” “I’m not going to hug you, just so you know,” Naoya said bluntly, retreating a step. It was common for Japanese people to prefer a large amount of personal space and to avoid making a lot of eye contact. Having not been raised in a physically touchy culture, they tended to distance themselves physically and mentally from others. But…in this kid’s case, that probably wasn’t the only factor at play. Most likely, Naoya was “damaged goods.” Wataru hadn’t inquired about Naoya’s circumstances, and Akira hadn’t offered anything about them. Even so, aside from his one mean-eyed childhood friend, this was the kind of kid Akira had always fussed over. Perhaps the reason Wataru had called out to Naoya when he’d first laid eyes on him at the university was because Naoya reminded him of another boy—one who was closed off to everyone around him. After actually speaking to him, that impression wasn’t as strong, but still—in some ways, Naoya resembled him—a child Akira had once spent time with…and Akira’s old self. “Well then, Akira. Naoya. Until next time.” As he waved good-bye and walked through the international departures gate, Wataru remembered that time. The day he’d welcomed Akira into his home, and the days that had followed. He thought of the story he had told Naoya about Akira’s youth. Twenty years had already passed. Wataru had been thirty-eight when he’d taken custody of a fifteen-year-old Akira. The man hadn’t grown a mustache yet, and the antiques business he’d started with a friend was finally taking off. He had acquired a block of flats several years prior at a bargain due to unforeseen circumstances, and at that point, there were three tenants and two dogs living in it. Truth be told, Wataru hadn’t known about what had happened to his nephew until the boy’s father, Tomoaki, had asked him to look after his son. That was how meager the relationship between Wataru and his family was. Having realized quite early on that Wataru’s temperament made him unsuitable as a successor, his father had kicked him out of the house promptly upon his graduation from college. He had been unceremoniously handed a bankbook and a debit card linked to an account that contained a fairly considerable amount of money and told, “Do as you please. The Takasaki Corporation is no longer a matter of your concern.” When Wataru had asked if he should consider this his inheritance, his father had readily confirmed as much. Deciding he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, Wataru had accepted the money gratefully and moved out. Shortly after that, he’d started living overseas. He rarely returned to Japan, and even when he did, he never visited his parents. He didn’t keep in regular contact with his older sister Sayaka or other family members. If they traveled to Europe for vacation, Wataru might have meals with them here and there. They didn’t even exchange yearly Christmas cards. His relationships with his friends and coworkers were infinitely more solid. And yet Tomoaki had turned to Wataru for help. The moment his sister’s family had been compelled to come to him, of all people, was the moment Wataru realized exactly how broken their home had become. “I understand this is an unreasonable request. But I could not find a better alternative.” On the other end of the phone, his brother-in-law’s voice sounded more miserable than Wataru had ever heard it, brimming with hopeless fatigue and heartache. He had listened to Tomoaki’s request and replied rather casually that he was fine with it. There was space in the apartment block, so it wasn’t a big deal. “Thank you… Truly, you’re a lifesaver.” Wondering what in the hell had been going through Tomoaki’s mind when he’d picked up the phone to make this call, Wataru told him not to worry about it. His brother-in-law had said there were no better alternatives, but Wataru wondered if any other options existed in the first place. If he hadn’t agreed, what had Tomoaki intended to do? Well, whatever, Wataru thought. In any case, he had room in the apartment block. That wasn’t to say Wataru had no worries about the situation. After all, he had only met the nephew in question a handful of times. He couldn’t even remember how many years it had been since they’d seen one another. Who knew if they would even recognize each other? “Right… I mean, fifteen years old… That’s a difficult age… He’s going to be at the height of his rebellious phase and puberty and all that…” Wataru found himself on the verge of wailing in consternation as he waited at Heathrow to pick up his nephew. He couldn’t just turn around and leave, right? No, of course not. As an adult and as a human in general, that would have been absolutely deplorable. The problem was, Wataru wasn’t fond of bothersome things. He had basically no interest in anything other than what he liked and tended to ignore all else, which had made his grades in school quite skewed. This was one of the reasons his father had given up on him. Not to mention, his nephew had even more worrisome circumstances, in addition to being at a difficult age. “…I really was too hasty… I shouldn’t have agreed without thinking it over…” Standing in front of the busy arrival gate, Wataru held his head in the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his cane. Glancing at his surroundings, he saw there were hugs being given all around. Passengers exiting their flights were greeted warmly—“It’s been too long!” “I missed you!”—by those who had come to pick them up. The least he could do, Wataru thought, was be welcoming. After all, his nephew had been kicked out of his home at the age of fifteen. The poor lad had nowhere else to go, so Wataru would give him somewhere. It was only right as his uncle. Even if his nephew ended up shutting himself up in his room all the time, that was still better than his being turned out onto the streets. Resolving to give his nephew a hug, too, Wataru faced the gate and held up the sketchbook-cum-welcome sign he had been keeping tucked under one arm. Written on it in Japanese was the message: WELCOME TO ENGLAND, AKIRA TAKATSUKI! Then— “…Uncle Wataru?” Someone addressed Wataru in Japanese from just beside him, and he turned to look, flustered, in that direction. A slender boy stood there with a large bag slung over his shoulder. He had big, bright eyes, a fair complexion, and light brown hair. With his well-ordered features, the boy was the spitting image of the teenage older sister in Wataru’s memories. “Akira?” he asked, and the boy—Akira—broke into a wide smile. “Yeah! Uncle Wataru, it’s nice to see you again! I’ll be in your care from now on!” He bowed his head politely, his tone clear and bright. Wataru looked down at him with a sense of relief. Well, now, he thought, if it isn’t a proper smile. He had been expecting the worst, but if this was how things were, it would be no different from hosting a study-abroad student. At the very least, it didn’t seem like Akira would stay holed up in his flat all the time or hurt everyone around him with teenage melodrama. Sketchbook in hand, Wataru opened his arms and wrapped Akira up in a hug. “I’m glad you’re here, Akira. Welcome to England! It’s been a long time since we last met, but you recognized me just fine. Hard to forget a face this handsome, eh?” “Yep, I could never forget my cool ‘Uncle Cane,’” Akira replied, giggling. That had been his nickname for Wataru when he was little. This could work, Wataru mused as he loaded Akira into his car and drove him to the apartment block in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of London. The boy chatted a lot during the drive despite almost certainly being jet-lagged. He talked about his memories of meeting Wataru as a child and the movies he had watched on the plane in a tone that sounded genuinely cheerful. Things just kept getting better, in Wataru’s opinion. He could already feel a kinship welling up between himself and this smiling boy. He even thought to himself how Akira might take after him more than Sayaka. “Here we are. This is the apartment block.” “Wow, it’s wonderful. It looks like something out of a movie!” Akira said, getting out of the car and looking up at the building with his eyes alight. The complex was an old five-story redbrick building. It wasn’t especially big, but the large arched windows and green ivy crawling along the walls gave the place a nice atmosphere. Each floor was its own rental unit, with the first floor serving as Wataru’s residence. Turning to Wataru with his gaze still sparkling, Akira asked, “Hey, Uncle? Do you ever see ghosts here?” “Ghosts?” “I heard haunted properties are more popular here in England. I thought that was interesting, since places with ghosts in Japan are rented for cheap.” “Ah, British people do love their ghosts. They think a haunting gives a place more prestige, you see. Unfortunately, however, there are no ghosts in this building…probably.” “‘Probably’?” “I haven’t seen any yet, but that doesn’t mean one isn’t hiding somewhere, right? So if you see one, make sure you tell me. Because then…” “Then…?” “I can raise the rent,” Wataru joked with a smirk. Akira snorted with laughter. “Come now, in we go. Your flat is on the third floor. Your luggage already arrived via courier. I’ll help you unpack later, so just come with me to mine for now—it’s the first floor. I’ll introduce you to the other tenants.” With that, Wataru opened the front door. At once, they were bombarded with quick, successive popping sounds, as if a firefight was taking place inside. Their field of vision was entirely obscured by multicolored streamers and confetti as the smell of gunpowder filled their noses. “Yokoso, Akira!” “Irashaimase!” “Ah, konnichiwa, ohayo, arigato gozaimasu! Geisha, Mt. Fuji, sushi!” It seemed the residents had been lying in wait on the other side of the door with party poppers in hand. Standing in a line, they called out in clumsy Japanese and set off another round of party poppers at fairly close range. “Oi, you dolts! You’re going to scare my nephew!” Wataru immediately hollered at them in English. He had heard they were planning a surprise welcome party, but he should have known they would take it too far. Startled, Akira stood rooted to the spot. The streamers hanging all over his head made him look a bit like a rainbow-colored mummy. “…Um. Nice to meet you, I’m Akira Takatsuki. Thank you for the kind welcome,” Akira replied in English, pulling streamers from his hair. He was actually quite fluent in English. It didn’t seem like he would have issues with everyday conversation, at least. While he had them all lined up in front of the door, Wataru decided to introduce his tenants. “Akira, these people are my family now. Let’s go down the line, I suppose—that’s Emma. She works at a local bakery and is aiming to become a baker herself.” “How d’you do, Akira? Looking forward to getting to know you!” Emma said, giving Akira a light hug. Their resident Brit, Emma, had fiery red hair, green eyes, and was twenty-four years old. Quite dazzlingly pretty, Emma was covered in freckles and always smelled of freshly baked bread. “Next to her is Richart. He works as a counselor in London.” “Hello, Akira! It would have been nice if you were a girl, but oh well!” Richart hugged Akira, too. Thirty-two-year-old Richart was a slender French man with blue eyes and slightly longer blond hair. When Wataru had announced he would be taking in the child of a relative, Richart had very persistently asked whether the child was a girl and if she was cute, but had immediately calmed down upon learning Akira was a boy. Richart was that sort of guy. “Last is Arnav. He works in London at an IT company. If you have any sort of computer problem, go to him. He can help with most anything.” “Nice to meet you, Akira. I’m sure we’ll be great friends,” Arnav said, shaking Akira’s hand. At thirty-four, with brown skin and dark eyes, Indian-born Arnav was probably the most well-behaved person in the complex. He had a serious personality and a somewhat stiff manner of speaking, but he was also incredibly kind. “Okay, now that we’ve exchanged hellos, it’s surprise party time!” Richart declared, urging Akira toward the living room with a light shove to his back. The living room had been decorated as though they were throwing a birthday party for a toddler. Star- and heart-shaped balloons had been tied here and there, and a triangular banner with the word WELCOME emblazoned across it hung from the ceiling. Akira laughed happily and let out a “wow!” when he saw it. Just then, they heard—arf! The sound—two different dogs, taking turns to bark—was coming from behind a door at the back of the living room. Akira’s eyes lit up again. “Are there dogs here?!” “Oh, merde, they were getting in the way of decorating, so I shut them in Wataru’s room. We’d better let them out.” Richart went over to open the bedroom door. Two big dogs—one black, one white, both floppy-eared—came bounding through it. A vet had said they were probably retriever mixes, but it was hard to be sure because the dogs were both rescues. “They’re so cute! Uncle, what are their names?” “The black one is Lobo. The white one is Blanca.” “Like from Seton’s Animal Chronicles!” “That’s right. I’m fond of Lobo, the King of Currumpaw. Unfortunately, however, Blanca is the brighter one in this household.” The two dogs sniffed all around Akira to get an idea of his scent, seemed to deem him not a threat, and began circling him while barking excitedly. Smiling, Akira reached out to pet them. Apparently he liked dogs, which was yet another aspect of living together that Wataru could now rest easy about. He had been worrying to himself what he would do if his nephew didn’t like dogs. “By the way, Wataru,” Emma said, “what’s for supper? I baked an apple pie since you asked me to handle dessert, but I’m rather sure it’s your turn to cook. Are you going to start now? Or are you thinking of going out to eat tonight?” “Ah, about that. Akira—listen up for a moment.” Akira was still preoccupied with the dogs, but Wataru got his attention. “Yes, Uncle?” “As long as you live in this building, there is one rule you absolutely must abide by.” Akira’s eyes went wide at his uncle’s grave tone, which made Richart laugh and pat him on the back. “It’s nothing to worry about—just that we all eat supper together unless someone has a date or something! Each unit has a kitchen, but Wataru’s is the biggest and nicest, so we make and eat supper down here on the first floor. It’s more fun that way, don’t you think?” “We take turns cooking. Oh, but someone else will take over if you’ve got some other engagement on your night.” “Advance notice is appreciated, however. Unless it’s an emergency, you should let everyone know by the day before.” Emma and Arnav added those clarifications, and Akira scratched his head with a somewhat awkward smile on his face. “I haven’t really done much cooking before, though. I don’t know if I can.” “In that case,” Wataru replied, “you can learn by helping others cook. Remember, food is the foundation of everything. Humans can’t live without it, and a delicious meal is sure to bring people joy. So—it’s my turn to cook tonight. Akira, did you remember to bring the goods I asked for?” Akira looked puzzled for a moment before he said, “Oh, you mean the instant ramen? I heard you asked if some could be sent with me.” “Yes, that’s the stuff. It’s quite a hassle to find here.” “…Does making instant ramen count as cooking?” “Oh-ho. Was that a dig at me just now? Don’t turn your nose up at Japan’s instant ramen! It’s extremely delicious! I make it with vegetables and corn and butter and meat. You should try it. I’m certain you’ll be hooked.” “I am interested in trying it, but…um, Uncle?” “What is it, lad?” “The ramen was in one of the boxes sent by the courier… I’m not sure I know which box, though.” “Pardon?” Unconsciously, they all cast their gazes toward the ceiling. Quite a few boxes had been delivered, and if memory served, they were all rather large. “…A treasure hunt,” said Arnav, quietly. Everyone—save for Akira—nodded and started for the stairs. Flustered, Akira chased after them. “W-wait, we’re going to open the boxes now? Together? But my underwear and stuff are in there?!” “Sorry, Akira! I’d like to respect your privacy, but I also quite enjoy Wataru’s special ramen!” “Ooh, don’t tell me you brought some Japanese porn with you? Let me take a look later! I’ll show you my stash, too.” “If there’s something you don’t want us to see, just say so in advance. I’ll close my eyes.” “No, um! Hold on! There’s no porn, but! But still!” The adults surged noisily into Akira’s flat with the anxious boy on their heels. Apparently adolescent boys didn’t want people to see their underclothes and whatnot, but since they would be living together from now on, worrying about such things was pointless. Akira bustled around saying things like “That’s my winter wardrobe” and “Those are study aids” and “Not those briefs! Stop it!” while the rest of them started opening boxes at random of their own accord and rummaging through the contents. Lobo and Blanca followed in the boy’s wake, barking up a storm. The room that had been so neatly prepared for Akira’s arrival devolved into utter chaos in minutes, and Emma got a thorough look at all of Akira’s underwear, but in the end the ramen was safely unearthed. They ate it together, and it was delicious. Everyone also offered to help Akira put his room back in order, incidentally, but he turned them down with a smile. In that respect, after all, he was a teenager. Late that evening, Wataru called Akira’s father. “Akira made it here safely. He seems to be adjusting well to the flat.” “…I see. Thank you. He’s in your hands now.” The almost stoic way Tomoaki said those words touched a bit of a nerve in Wataru. He wanted to give the man a dressing-down for having so heartlessly cast such a good kid out of the house and shipping him overseas to live with a relative. “Hey, Tomoaki?” “Hmm?” “Akira doesn’t seem particularly troubled to me.” On the other end of the line, his brother-in-law went silent. Unconcerned, Wataru barreled on. “In any case, I suppose Father gave the order, did he? To send Akira here.” By Wataru’s estimation, this whole thing had to be his father’s—Akira’s grandfather’s—suggestion. He had heard that his older sister had become quite mentally unwell after Akira’s kidnapping incident. Unlike Wataru, meek and outstanding Sayaka had always been doted on by their father. She had likely already been dating Tomoaki when her leg injury had resulted in her retirement from ballet. He’d been a prospective marriage partner selected by her parents, but Sayaka had fallen for Tomoaki readily. Wataru was sure his father must have been satisfied with Akira, too. The boy had a good disposition and excellent grades. He had probably been the old man’s target for future successor. Sayaka had even said once that their father was quite partial to her son. But the kidnapping had changed everything. There was no going back. “That’s how much the old geezer cares about Sayaka, eh? Even more than for his grandson.” Sayaka’s illness, Wataru had been told, had been caused by the circumstances of Akira’s return. His sister had always been rather opinionated, but apparently she was utterly convinced that Akira had been kidnapped by tengu and had tried to turn him into some sort of deity because of it. But Sayaka was the one with the problem, wasn’t she? It wasn’t as though Akira was to blame. “Listen, Tomoaki. Don’t you think Father made a mistake…? Choosing to protect his mentally unwell daughter and sending his grandson, who could have become an exceptional successor, out of the country? I think so, at least.” For a while, out of sight through the phone, Tomoaki said nothing. Then Wataru heard a faint sigh, followed by: “—You’re wrong.” “Huh?” “The decision to send Akira away…was mine.” Wataru’s eyes widened. “…Why?” “Keeping him here any longer wouldn’t have been good for him. And…” Tomoaki paused briefly. There was more silence. Summoning all his patience, Wataru waited for his brother-in-law to continue. “…And…to be honest, that boy…he scares me, too.” “What did you say?” Wataru could not believe his ears. “What about him could you possibly be afraid of? He’s such a good kid.” Tomoaki’s response was vague. “—You’ll understand sooner or later.” Akira arrived in England at the end of March. He’d graduated from a junior high school in Japan, and arrangements had already been made for him to attend a school in London. But school in the UK didn’t start until September. There was nothing for Akira to do but try to use those six months to become acclimated to the country. Sometimes, Wataru would have to leave home for days at a time to buy antiques, but everyone else in the apartment block looked after Akira while he was gone. All of them, including the dogs, seemed to have taken a quick liking to him and made a group effort to dote on him. The building’s only rule was that they had dinner as a group. Gathered in Wataru’s large dining room, they all put their hands together in the Japanese style and said “itadakimasu” before eating. The menu frequently consisted of whatever dishes the chef on duty that evening liked best or was good at—in other words, it was usually someone’s national cuisine. In Emma’s case, it was cottage pie and herb-roasted bone-in lamb chops; pot-au-feu and cassoulet for Richart; various curries for Arnav; and nikujaga and different types of noodles for Wataru. Akira helped with meal prep every day. Unable to make so much as a soup at first, in no time Akira could bake bread and cook pot-au-feu and curry all by himself. For the life of him, Wataru could not figure out why Tomoaki was afraid of the boy. Surrounded by the other residents, Akira was always smiling. Never selfish or rebellious, he was mild-mannered, good-natured, and caused no trouble at all. “…I guess sending Akira to England was the right choice.” One night, after his nephew had gone to bed, Wataru said those words to Emma over a glass of wine. “He spends every day without worry and truly enjoys his life here. I’m glad I took him in. Well—living under the same roof as and being fussed over by a woman this charming and beautiful, any boy would be happy.” Wataru scooped up a lock of Emma’s bright-red hair and winked at her. But for some reason, Emma’s face darkened a little. “…About that, actually. There’s something that’s been bothering me for a while.” “Something bothering you?” “That boy, he’s a bit odd, isn’t he?” Emma said, swirling wine around in her glass. Wataru stared at her, bewildered. “What do you mean, ‘odd’? Emma, you aren’t seriously going to tell me you’re afraid of Akira or some such nonsense?” “It’s not that I’m afraid of him. But you don’t think it’s weird, Wataru? A boy his age always smiling, never getting homesick?” “Emma, that’s… I told you, Akira was having problems at home.” “Yes, I remember that. But, Wataru, have you ever seen Akira cry or get angry even once?” “—What?” He only realized it the moment the words fell from Emma’s mouth. It was true—Wataru could not remember seeing anything other than a smile on the boy’s face since his arrival. There were variations in the smile, naturally. One for when he thought something was funny, one for when he was happy, one for when he felt a little awkward, and so on. “Well, but—always smiling is a hell of a lot more preferable to crying all the time, don’t you think? Maybe he’s just having that much fun every day.” “Mmm, I suppose that could be it,” she replied, shrugging a little. Not even Emma seemed to think it was something to be seriously concerned about. Nevertheless—Akira wasn’t entirely without problems, truth be told. Akira cried out a lot in his sleep. It was only by chance that Wataru noticed. They didn’t sleep on the same floor, after all. Normally, he was none the wiser. Coming home late one night, Wataru saw there was a light still on in Akira’s room and went to check on him. He tried calling out to see if the boy was still awake but found his nephew asleep in bed, apparently having just forgotten to turn the lamp near his window off. Wataru switched off the lamp and crept quietly toward the door to leave—and that was when Akira started moaning. He threw his duvet off and curled in as though trying to hold himself, murmuring incoherently. When the babbling began to sound like stop, no, and please help me, Wataru rushed to shake him awake. Sitting up with a start, Akira looked at his uncle, his face pale. “…I’m sorry. Was I talking in my sleep? It must have been loud.” Akira smiled apologetically, and Wataru found himself unable to ask what he had been dreaming about. Even now, he thought, he’s smiling. An awful sadness filled Wataru’s chest. “Do you think you can get back to sleep? If not, you could sit up talking with me until morning.” “…Could I use your study instead? I’d like to read a book.” Such times often led to Akira shutting himself in Wataru’s study with Lobo and Blanca. More than half the books in the study were in English, so Wataru had offered to loan him a dictionary, too, but Akira had said he didn’t need one. Before coming to England, he explained, he had memorized an English-Japanese dictionary, a Japanese-English dictionary, and an English-English dictionary. When Wataru asked how he could memorize things like that, Akira had laughed and said, “I have a slightly better memory than other people.” Many times, when he peeked into the study in the morning, Wataru had found Akira asleep on the floor with the dogs. The sight was undoubtedly cute—it was like there were three dogs cuddled up—but he didn’t want his nephew to catch a cold or wake up in pain. There was nothing for it but to spread a blanket out on the floor of the study in advance. Once Wataru did that, Akira began wrapping himself up in the blanket of his own volition when he got sleepy. It was important to prepare for potentialities when possible. But if Akira was crying out in his sleep like that, wasn’t that proof that he was shouldering some kind of mental burden? Luckily, Richart was a counselor. Mental and emotional issues were his area of expertise. Wataru got Akira to try counseling sessions with him…but it was unclear whether this was actually effective or not. One day, Wataru asked Akira what he and Richart had talked about when the boy came home from a session. “Hmmm… Well, he pretty much only asked about my love life,” Akira answered, head cocked to the side. Later on, Wataru made sure to knock Richart over the head for his trouble. Eventually, September came, and Akira started attending school in London. With his English ability, he wouldn’t have any problems studying or holding a conversation, but the building residents grew worried when they heard Akira was the only Japanese student at the school. Shortly after term began, Richart asked Akira over dinner, “No one’s bullying you, right? If they are, make sure you tell me, yes? I’ll treat them to some therapy known as a thorough talking-to.” “There’s no one bullying me right now,” Akira said, smiling wryly. “It’s okay.” Arnav was in charge of supper that day and had cooked them a fish curry. As Akira was bringing a bite of fish to his mouth, he made a face as though something had just occurred to him. “—Oh, hey, what’s a ‘changeling’? The dictionary said it’s ‘a grotesque child left behind by fairies as a replacement for a child they’ve kidnapped,’ but I don’t really understand what that means.” Emma looked bewildered by his sudden inquiry. “Where did you hear that word, Akira?” “At school. There’s a kid who gets called that.” “Huh?” “He lives in this neighborhood. We ride the same bus home a lot. His name is John Harker.” The adults at the table exchanged looks, but none of them seemed to recognize the name. The area wasn’t very large, but they still couldn’t be expected to know everyone who lived there. “Akira,” Emma said, “changelings come from old Irish folktales. Fairies would lure human children away to their world and leave other fairies behind as substitutes. Those substitutes were called ‘changelings.’ Oftentimes they were said to have rather ugly faces that looked nothing like the child they were meant to replace.” “…So then, fairies kidnap children in this country, too?” Akira paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Emma nodded. “That’s right. When people went missing here, their disappearances would get blamed on fairies a lot of the time. People would say they got stolen away by the fae or lured into the fae world, that sort of thing. Those are just silly old stories, though.” “Hmm… I see,” Akira said, eyes cast slightly downward. Beneath his long eyelashes, Wataru noticed the boy’s eyes were suddenly tinged with blue. “Akira?” he asked, startled. With a little jerk, Akira looked up at his uncle. Already, a placating smile was blooming over his face. His eyes were their usual dark brown. “I think John gets bullied by the other kids. Maybe that’s why they call him a weird nickname like that… I was thinking of becoming John’s friend.” “Ah, that’s a nice idea, Akira,” Arnav commended him, as serious as always. Akira chuckled, bashful. None of the other residents seemed to have noticed his eyes. Wataru paid careful attention to them for a little while after that, but nothing strange happened. Perhaps it had just been a trick of the light. Akira really did seem to become close with John after that day. His name came up frequently when anyone asked Akira how things were going at school. It was nice to see Akira make a friend, but Richart soon had new worries. “That boy John gets bullied, non? Is Akira going to be okay? What if they start bullying him, too, because of it? He must already stick out at school since he’s Japanese.” Ending up with a target painted on one’s back for standing up for another kid was definitely not unheard of. But Wataru couldn’t encourage Akira to stop associating with the friend he had taken such pains to make. Richart advised everyone to keep an eye on the situation for a little while, so they started casually checking Akira’s clothing and belongings for stains every day when he came home. Akira, however, went to and from school with a smile on his face, day in and day out, giving no indication at all that anything troublesome was going on. The sense that everything seemed okay gave them all some relief, but—it was also naive. One day, Wataru got a call from the school while he was at work. Telling him an incident involving Akira had occurred, the school asked Wataru to come by. Leaving his work to someone else, Wataru rushed there as quickly as he could. Classes had been dismissed for the day when he arrived. He found Akira sitting in an empty classroom, an apologetic smile on his face, accompanied only by a scowling male teacher standing at his side. “…I’m sorry for causing you trouble, Uncle.” “Akira, what the devil happened? Are you hurt anywhere, or—” “—It was other students who were injured,” the teacher cut in. Akira looked down, a tinge of shame in his expression. Learning that his nephew had injured other kids caught Wataru by surprise. “What happened?” “Well—” Frowning, the teacher explained. A certain group of students had apparently had their eyes on Akira for a while. They were overly interested in him, for some reason, and thought it suspicious that Akira always changed into and out of his gym clothes in a separate room. So, apparently, they had attempted to force Akira out of his clothes. Wataru was completely distraught. The school had been informed of the scars on Akira’s back and been asked to make accommodations for him in advance, but it seemed that had backfired. “So he fought back against the kids trying to undress him, and they were injured?” “Correct. He picked up a broken broom handle from nearby and beat them all down in seconds. They sustained minor injuries to their foreheads and shoulders and such.” I see, Wataru thought. This sort of thing was common—when students fought, whichever side caused injury to the other got the blame, regardless of why the fight had happened. The ones who’d caused this incident had lost the scuffle. Wataru having been called to the school probably meant he was being held responsible, as Akira’s guardian. “I see,” Wataru said. “I understand now. Akira—stand up.” Obediently, Akira got to his feet. Putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, Wataru looked at his teacher. “From what I’ve heard, the other students are at fault here, no matter how you look at it. If you’re going to lecture anyone, it should be them. I’m taking Akira home.” Akira looked up at Wataru in surprise. Maybe he had expected to be reprimanded. Pushing the boy gently toward the door, Wataru made to leave the classroom. But then— “I already gave the other students quite the stern talking-to.” “…Pardon?” Without thinking, Wataru froze and looked over his shoulder. The teacher continued, his expression as sour as ever. “I invited you here today because I wanted to apologize for having overlooked their inappropriate behavior until now. Mr. Takatsuki might have been a little excessive in his actions, but I deemed it to be an unavoidable use of self-defense in a one-against-many situation. I am committed to preventing such incidents in the future.” Wataru stared at the frowning teacher, a little bemused. Evidently, the displeased look on the man’s face was just his default expression. As he stepped outside the school with Akira, Wataru couldn’t help the sigh that escaped him. “Phew, that was stressful… So this is how parents feel after being called to school.” “I’m sorry, Uncle. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Akira said, his voice apologetic again. Wataru ruffled the boy’s hair. “Oh no, don’t worry about it. My parents got some summons on account of me, too. I was quite the troublemaker in elementary school and junior high.” “Did you settle down during high school?” “—I take it you don’t know why I’ve got a bad leg?” “No, no one’s ever told me.” “On my sixteenth birthday, I skipped school to go get my motorcycle license. The very same day, I bought a bike, caused an accident, and ended up with a comminuted fracture. My father was livid… That was probably the thing that made him finally give up on me.” Akira burst into a small laugh at Wataru’s smirk. “You really were a bad kid, Uncle.” “Indeed! And you’d better not follow in my footsteps, you hear?” “Well, I’d rather not have a comminuted fracture,” Akira said, glancing at his uncle’s leg. “It seems painful.” Wataru glanced back at the school, recalling the face of Akira’s teacher. The man looked mean, but he was a first-class educator. It seemed his nephew had managed to enroll in quite a good school. Now that he had calmed down, he scratched his head a little, finding it almost humorous how he had abandoned work to practically fly here. He hadn’t ever thought of himself as the type to do something like that. He was supposed to be the type to toss aside anything troublesome or annoying. A tad uncomfortable, Wataru wondered if this was what it felt like to have a son. He wasn’t even married. “By the way, Akira… You were being bullied, after all. Why didn’t you say anything?” “It wasn’t really bullying,” the boy replied, giving a slightly embarrassed smile. “I guess they thought the reason I don’t change in front of people is that I have a tattoo of falling cherry blossoms somewhere. Do they broadcast Japanese historical dramas here, too?” “So it would seem… Akira, if you don’t want to go to school, you can quit.” “I’m fine, Uncle. You’re just overprotective.” Akira giggled. Looking at him, Wataru realized Akira probably wouldn’t say anything even if the bullying continued. Perhaps this was what Emma had been concerned about. All Akira did was smile. He seemed determined to hide behind a smile, even in the worst scenario. He probably thought of it as trying not to cause anyone trouble or make them worry, but the result was that, by extension, he wouldn’t turn to anyone for help. It made Wataru feel a little desolate. The adults in his life would have to keep being vigilant for a while after all. Wataru went to pat Akira’s hair again, when just overhead, he heard the sound of wings flapping. Looking up, he saw a flock of doves taking off from behind a nearby building and heading for the roof of church a bit farther away. Wataru often thought European townscapes were suited to flocks of doves. Birds flitting through the spires and triangular roofs always made for quite the nice picture. Wataru’s musings were cut short by something colliding with him. It was Akira. “…Akira? Hey, what’s wrong?!” His face pale, Akira had collapsed against Wataru as if he had tripped over his own feet or something. Letting go of his cane to support his nephew’s delicate frame with both arms, Wataru called his name over and over. There was no response. Passersby stopped to ask if everything was all right, alarm in their eyes, but it was clear to Wataru that Akira was not all right. He asked someone to call an ambulance. Akira still hadn’t regained consciousness by the time they got to the hospital. He was examined as thoroughly as possible, but all the doctors could do was shake their heads. There was nothing obviously wrong with him, so their best guess was that it was “psychogenic pseudosyncope.” Wataru was told Akira could rest there until he woke up, at which point it would be okay to take him home. Standing beside the hospital bed and looking down at Akira, Wataru heaved a sigh. What the hell is psychogenic pseudosyncope? he thought. If he tried hard enough, he thought he recalled Tomoaki saying something like “don’t show him any birds” before Akira had come to England, but it was hard to believe the boy could end up in this state just from seeing a bird. In the bed, Akira was too quiet, too still. So much so that Wataru started to worry he might die. The doctors had said he was fine, but the sight of his pale face made Wataru think the tests had to have been wrong somehow. What would he do if Akira died like this? Was he supposed to contact Akira’s parents? When hospital staff asked what Wataru’s relationship was to the patient and he’d answered “I’m his uncle,” they’d responded with, “Where are his parents?” It was a natural thing to ask. When something happened to a child, the first order of business was contacting their parents. The ones who should have been standing at Akira’s side now were his mother and father, not his uncle. Wataru knew that. He knew that, and yet…a not-insignificant part of him felt like he’d just been punched in the gut. “…Damn it.” How foolish that only a short while ago he’d been entertaining the idea that he had become like Akira’s father. What they were doing was nothing more than playing pretend at being a family, he knew. But what choice did they have? After all, Akira’s real parents had thrown him away. Wataru turned his gaze back to his nephew. “…Akira?” At some point while he wasn’t paying attention, Akira had opened his eyes. He’d regained consciousness. Thank goodness, Wataru thought, opening his mouth to say something—and freezing with a jolt. Akira’s eyes had changed color. Usually the dark brown typical of many Japanese people, right then, those eyes were deep blue—no, they looked like they had been dyed in indigo. They weren’t the blue eyes of a Westerner. Wataru had never seen anyone with eyes like this before—eyes so profoundly deep and dark that they looked like they had been cut right out of the night sky. Ever so slowly, Akira’s gaze shifted toward him. …Who the hell is this? Wataru thought. There was neither the ghost of a smile on those lips, nor even the slightest hint of warmth in that gaze. Akira was always as affable as a puppy around company, but in that moment, his face was completely devoid of emotion. It made it much easier to see just how startlingly symmetrical his features were. Akira sat up. Wataru let out a short, unintentional gasp merely from the relief of no longer having those eyes on him. Being pinned under that gaze had made his blood run cold, like he’d caught a chill. But—it wasn’t a chill he was feeling. It was fear—the kind of fear a person feels when they cross paths with a being entirely alien to them. Looking toward the window, Akira spoke. “Is this—totsukuni?” “What…?” Wataru’s brow furrowed. Akira always spoke Japanese when he and Wataru were alone but switched to English in front of others. What he had just said was in Japanese, but it didn’t sound like the kind of Japanese Wataru was used to hearing. “Totsukuni”? It took a few seconds for his brain—which had been fairly distanced from Japanese for a long time—to convert those sounds into their kanji. Totsukuni—a foreign land. Undeniably, the word had been said in Akira’s voice, and yet, with all the feeling and inflection absent from his tone, he’d sounded like someone else entirely. Getting up from the bed without making so much as a rustling sound, Akira walked over to the window and spoke again. “Akira—has been cast off?” “Cast off?” Wataru echoed instinctively. Expressionless, Akira looked back at him for a moment before turning abruptly back to the window. “Unwanted things are cast off. Abandoned. Thrown away. It has been so since the days of Hiruko and Awashima.” Wataru had heard those names before, he thought. Hiruko, Awashima, cast off… The connection between those three terms surfaced in his head with a passage from the Kojiki that he had read years ago. It was from the story of Japan’s creation by the gods Izanagi and Izanami. The first two children of their union, the failed divine beings, Hiruko and Awashima. If memory served, Izanagi and Izanami had put the two children in a boat—and set them adrift at sea. Akira flung the window open wide. It was a large window, and its opening was followed by a rush of wind and sounds from outside. The hospital faced a major road. The hustle and bustle of city streets flowed in—people talking, music playing somewhere, engines running, car horns—all seeming to come from below. Wataru couldn’t remember what floor of the hospital they were on. “If you do not want him, we will have him,” Akira said calmly, facing the open window. “We will take Akira—he can return to us once more.” Akira leaped onto the windowsill effortlessly, like he weighed nothing at all. Wataru shot forward at once, arms extended. His right leg buckled, unable to handle the sudden movement, but he barely noticed. Grabbing ahold of the back of Akira’s shirt, Wataru hauled him backward with all his might just as it seemed like the boy would throw himself from the window. Falling back into Wataru’s arms, Akira looked up at him with his indigo gaze. Wataru stared right into those eyes and said, “He’s not unwanted.” Unable to shake the feeling that he was addressing some other being, Wataru threw that word back at it. Something that looked like the twinkling of an actual star deep within those night-sky eyes sent another chill down his spine. Wataru forced himself not to look away. “I won’t give him to you… Akira is my precious nephew.” Akira continued to stare fixedly, and then at last, just once—he blinked. The blue bled out of his eyes in moments, leaving his usual dark brown behind. “…Huh? Uncle? What happened?” The puzzled face looking up at Wataru then belonged to the Akira he knew. Behind him, the door to the hospital room opened with a clatter. Emma, Richart, and Arnav dashed inside, calling out in alarm, but Wataru could not answer them. He couldn’t even turn his head. Without a word, he pulled Akira’s slight form into his arms. He felt Akira squirm a little in surprise but refused to loosen his grip. Afraid that if he let go, that indigo-eyed Akira would come back and steal this one away from him at any time, Wataru could only hold on. Later, when asked, Akira told his uncle that his memory cut off right after he’d seen the flock of doves. He had no recollection whatsoever of the conversation he’d had with Wataru immediately after waking up. He did, however, seem to sense from Wataru’s demeanor that he had behaved strangely. “Um…I’m sorry, Uncle. I was probably still half asleep or something,” Akira said, flashing an evasive grin, but it was obvious that even he didn’t buy his own explanation. Wataru decided to consult Richart’s expertise and asked if Richart thought Akira’s conduct pointed to a split personality. But as Richart reminded him, dissociative identity disorder, as it was properly known, could not make someone’s eye color shift. He thought of calling Tomoaki, but quickly rejected the idea. He got the feeling his brother-in-law also had no clue what that other Akira was. After the incident, Akira continued to attend school regularly without displaying any especially unusual mannerisms. The bullying episode still weighing on his mind, Wataru rang Akira’s teacher to ask about the state of things. To his surprise, the teacher replied, “Mister Takatsuki is rather popular at school now.” Apparently, the way Akira had defeated a group of bullies in a matter of seconds with only a wooden stick had reminded the other students of a samurai or a ninja, and they had started calling him “Samurai Boy” as a sign of respect… Children, Wataru supposed, were just uncomplicated that way. Despite his increase in popularity, Akira continued to spend time with the boy named John. Since they lived in the same neighborhood, they started commuting to and from school together. Thinking of what could happen if Akira were to encounter a bird while out by himself—if he lost consciousness somewhere unfamiliar and no one were to see—Wataru was just relieved there was someone with him. Akira brought John to the apartment block a few times. John had messy red hair and blue eyes. The way he looked furtively up at others and didn’t say much made it fairly easy to recognize him as a child who was frequently bullied. For all that, however, he wasn’t a bad child by any means. He even once apologized to Wataru, claiming it was his fault Akira had been bullied. It happened one evening after John had joined them for supper. Wataru was driving John home; Akira had stayed behind. “…Why does Akira care about me?” John murmured from the back seat, staring out the window. “He got bullied for hanging out with someone like me… I’m sorry. He went through that because of me. It was my fault.” “That is not something for you to worry over. You aren’t to blame,” Wataru said. In the rearview mirror, he noticed John’s gaze flicker in his direction. The boy’s big blue eyes were filled with tears. “…Speaking of,” Wataru continued, “are you still being harassed?” “No… It seems like nobody wants to do anything to me because I’ve got ‘Samurai Boy’ by my side.” “I see. Akira is a dashing lad, isn’t he?” “But he should be friends with other kids—not me, the ‘changeling.’ With the popular kids, you know? I think that lot actually do try to invite him to join them all the time. He’s smart and popular with girls… I dunno why he wastes his time on me.” John stared out the window again. His words were pretty obsequious, but his confusion sounded genuine. The reason John had been labeled a changeling became obvious the moment they arrived at his house. He looked nothing like his parents. His mother was a blond woman with green eyes. His father, possibly of Middle Eastern descent, had black hair and tan skin. “Thank you for taking the trouble to bring him home,” his mother said, her tone somewhat cold and stiff. Her demeanor was rather unfriendly, too; immediately after thanking Wataru, she disappeared back into the house. Ah, I see, Wataru thought. This boy doesn’t get shown much love. “Well, John, see you soon, eh?” he said, patting the boy lightly on the head. John, however, said nothing. He was staring across the street. For a second, Wataru thought he might have been rattled by his mother’s attitude—but that wasn’t it. Following John’s gaze, he saw a man standing on the other side of the road. Wataru frowned. The man had red hair and was wearing sunglasses despite the fact that it was already getting dark. He seemed to be attempting to hide his face behind the upturned collar of his gray coat. Standing with his legs slightly apart, the man just stared at them. “Do you know him?” Wataru asked, looking at John. John shook his head minutely from side to side, not taking his eyes off the man. Then John’s mother poked her head out of the house again. “John, what are you doing? Come inside already… John?” She turned her questioning gaze in the direction John was looking. The next second, she let out a faint gasp. “—John, inside. Now.” Voice severe, she started ushering her son inside. John seemed reluctant to obey, his attention still across the street, but his mother was relentless. Ultimately, he gave up and went in. John’s mother gave Wataru, who was still standing near her front door, a brief nod before practically running back into the house. Wataru watched them go before looking toward the man in the gray coat again—but there was no one there. Even though Wataru was certain he couldn’t have been looking elsewhere for more than a few seconds, the man had vanished like he was never there to begin with. Back at his flat, Wataru found Akira in his study with Lobo and Blanca. He was settled on the blanket his uncle had laid out for him, one dog on each side, reading an old book. The book, titled Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, was one Wataru had just recently purchased from a secondhand bookseller. It was a collection of stories and poems about fairies and such, compiled in Ireland by renowned poet W. B. Yeats. Having already made his way through nearly every book in the study, Akira always noticed right away when Wataru added something to his collection. “Welcome back, Uncle. Thank you for bringing John home.” Akira looked up from the page he was reading to smile at his uncle. The dogs barked their greetings to him as well. Wataru gestured to the book. “Is that interesting?” “Yeah… It’s a little scary, though.” Wataru had bought the book because he thought it might end up being useful to his work. The antiques he dealt with sometimes had mythological or fairy-tale motifs, so being knowledgeable about such topics wasn’t a bad idea. The fact that there was a section of the book called “Changelings” had played a part in the decision to buy it, too. Sitting himself down next to Akira, Wataru looked at the page the book was open to—which just happened to be the preface to the “Changelings” section. The page described a method for identifying a changeling that involved placing the child in question in a lit fireplace and chanting a spell. If it was a changeling, the book said, it would “rush up the chimney with a cry.” “…So what would happen if someone did this and it wasn’t a changeling, just their actual child?” “The child would suffer some serious burns, I’m sure.” “That’s cruel… To go that far because they want to know whether it’s their own child so badly…” Akira closed the book with a whisper. To some extent, Wataru had a feeling he knew why his nephew spent time with John. Akira probably saw himself in the boy everyone called “changeling.” In Irish legend, fairies stole human children and left impostors in their place. Someone had once kidnapped Akira in Japan, and after he’d returned, his own mother insisted he was not her child. Wataru didn’t think John had ever been abducted, but the relationship between him and his mother was one Akira could easily sympathize with. Announcing he was going to bed, Akira stood up. He patted the dogs good night and started to leave the study. Then, stopping in the doorway, he turned his head just a little to speak over his shoulder. “Uncle—about John.” “Hmm?” “He told me yesterday that he really is a fairy changeling.” “…Come again?” “He said they were coming tomorrow to take him back to the world of the fae. That we’d have to say our good-byes.” Eyes downcast, Akira spoke in a rather level tone. “Akira…” “The fairies are coming to pick him up. I’m a little jealous.” “Akira.” Looking up at the sound of his name, Akira smiled brightly at Wataru. “Sorry, I’m talking nonsense… Anyway, I’m off to bed. Good night.” The very next evening, Akira disappeared. He hadn’t shown up on the first floor when it was time to prepare dinner, so Arnav had trekked upstairs to check on him. When he came back down, ashen-faced, it was to tell them Akira was gone. Akira had never failed to inform someone before leaving the apartment block. It sent the rest of the residents into a panic. No closer to locating him after phoning everyone who came to mind, Richart insisted they have Lobo and Blanca sniff Akira’s clothing to track him. “But they haven’t been trained to do that… I don’t think it’s possible.” “How will we know unless we try?! Let them smell his socks or something!” With no better options in mind, Wataru fished one of his nephew’s undershirts out of the laundry and held it up to the dogs’ noses, who gave it an eager and thorough sniffing. “Lobo, Blanca! Where’s Akira? Think you can find him?” The dogs barked simultaneously in response to Richart before running straight for the front door. Everyone hurried to chase after them, but Wataru’s bad leg would not allow him to maintain speed for long at all. “Just go!” he yelled. “Call me if you find him!” Just barely keeping pace with Lobo and Blanca, Richart and Arnav shouted back in understanding. Staggering to the side of the road, Wataru leaned heavily on his cane, cursing and striking his right leg with his fist. How hateful that, though it had been his own foolishness that had earned him this injury, he could not escape it by his own will. Out of nowhere, a motorcycle came up from behind Wataru, stopping diagonally in front of him. The person sitting astride the bike was a beautiful, red-haired woman. “I went to borrow this from the bakery manager! Hop on!” It was Emma. “Emma?! I didn’t know you could ride a motorcycle!” “I never said,” she answered, grinning. “You know, when I lived out in the country, they used to call me ‘Red Rocket’!” Wataru straddled the bike’s rear seat and wrapped his arms around Emma’s waist. The scent of freshly baked bread tickled his nose. The bike roared to life, and they took off in search of the others. Turning a corner, they spotted the running forms of two dogs and two men in the distance. Richart was starting to fall behind. Pulling the motorcycle even with him, Emma hollered, “You got this, mate!” A gasping, puffing Richart breathlessly called back with, “Not…fair!” Arnav, meanwhile, sprinted down the sidewalk after Lobo and Blanca at a steady speed, his breathing even. Their group made for an incredible procession: Two dogs, one black and one white, seemingly racing one another. An Indian man with the form of an athlete, hot on their heels. A winded Frenchman tottering behind them at an ever-growing distance. And, tearing through the street alongside them, a redheaded Englishwoman on a motorbike, and a Japanese man with a cane tucked under one arm clinging to her. Passersby stared, craning their necks in obvious curiosity. The dogs led them to a warehouse-lined street on the edge of town. The area was desolate, practically deserted, except for a solitary car parked beneath the single illuminated streetlight. Next to the open rear door of the vehicle, there were three people engaged in a struggle. One adult, and two boys—John and Akira. Akira was attempting to reach John, who was being shoved into the back seat by an adult man. “Akira! John!” Wataru shouted from the motorbike as the dogs broke into high-pitched yelps. The man looked back at them in alarm. Evidently deciding the odds were not in his favor, he rushed around the car to the driver’s side door as Akira dragged John out of the back seat. Not a moment later, the car started to take off. The wide-open rear door slammed into Akira, who still had his arms around John, and Wataru watched the two boys crumple to the pavement. “Akira!” Emma brought the motorcycle to a quick stop and Wataru practically flew off it in his haste to dismount. He ran for the collapsed boys, Arnav and the dogs close behind. “Akira, are you hurt?!” “…No, I’m okay. But why are you here?” “You can thank Lobo and Blanca for their noses,” Arnav replied. The dogs busied themselves licking all over Akira’s face as he remained plopped down in the street. Panting hard, Richart joined them at last, immediately sinking down at Akira’s side. “We should phone the police, right?” Emma asked. After all, they had just witnessed an indisputable attempt at kidnapping. But Akira objected. “Don’t, Emma… You’d rather not, right? John?” John sat on Akira’s other side, dazed. He turned in surprise at his name, then lowered his gaze to the ground. “Akira,” Wataru spoke up, “what’s the meaning of this?” “Well, I’ll explain everything later, okay? Let’s just take John home for now.” When they arrived at the Harker home, they found it in a bit of an uproar. Apparently, John had disappeared from the house after leaving behind a note that said “good-bye.” His mother had called the police in a panic, afraid her son had run away or that he intended to harm himself. When Wataru and the others turned up with John safely in tow, they informed the police they had found him on the outskirts of town. Clearly annoyed by what they saw as a waste of their time, the police left. “John! Oh, John, I’m so glad you’re all right…!” Her face wet with tears, John’s mother pulled him into a hug. From within the circle of her arms, John looked wildly confused. “…Er? You…were worried? About me?” “Of course I was! What the bloody hell were you thinking?!” Mrs. Harker scolded John and wept at the same time, and John could only stammer in response. He had probably never seen her make that face while yelling at him before. Recalling her demeanor from the evening before, when he had escorted John home after dinner, even Wataru was a bit surprised. She hadn’t seemed like the kind of mother to worry this much over her child. Then, suddenly and without explanation, Akira looked at Richart and Arnav and said, “Hey, could you do me a favor? Could you take John’s father to the pub across the way for a drink?” “Pardon?” “Understood.” Richart sounded perplexed, but Arnav merely nodded. He walked over to Mr. Harker, offered to buy him a pint, and steered him out the door toward the nearby pub. John’s father also looked bewildered, but with Arnav and Richart each taking him by an arm, he had no choice but to allow himself to be marched out of the house. Once he had left, Akira approached John and his mother. “I’d like to explain, Mrs. Harker… Just now, John’s biological father came to pick him up.” Mrs. Harker stared at him in shock. Holding his left arm, Akira continued. “Two days ago, I saw an unfamiliar man waving to John on our way home from school. He was trying to obscure his face with his lapels and a hat, but he stood out to me since he wasn’t from around here, nor was he someone I had ever seen on our regular commute. I asked John about him later, and he said something about the man ‘coming from the land of the fae to pick him up.’ That made me realize the man was, as I had suspected, John’s biological father.” John’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait, how could you know that?! He was hiding his face!” “Because his ears are the exact same shape as yours,” Akira answered, tugging on one of his own earlobes with a small smile. “I read once that heredity can be determined by ear shape.” “His ears… But how could you see them from that distance?” “Ahh, well, my vision is a bit better than the average person’s.” Akira’s tone was casual. He tilted his head once to the side, then looked back at John’s mother. “Mrs. Harker, I guessed correctly, didn’t I? That man—” He glanced in the direction Mr. Harker had gone with Arnav and Richart. “—isn’t John’s biological father.” Mrs. Harker’s eyes followed his. Crestfallen, she nodded. She turned back to her son. Her voice was hoarse. “John… You knew?” “…I didn’t know, but…as soon as I saw him, I could tell… He looks like me.” “I see…” Mrs. Harker buried her face in her hands, then stared once again at the front door. When she shifted her attention to Akira, there was a wobbly smile on her tearstained face. “You had him taken out of the house because you knew this conversation was coming.” “I wanted to make it easier on you, even if only a little.” Akira smiled. Drawing a shaky breath, Mrs. Harker looked at John and started to speak. “John’s father and I dated when we were students.” Though they had certainly been lovers while at school, they’d sort of just stopped seeing one another after graduation. Then they’d met again by chance after Mrs. Harker was already married. They’d had a one-night stand, and naturally, John’s mother had never told her husband. She’d realized before long, however, that she was pregnant. Her heart had sunk at first, but there was still a chance the baby was her husband’s. She’d gone into labor praying for it to be so—but the baby boy she delivered had looked exactly like her ex and nothing like her husband. Mr. Harker had been suspicious, but she’d explained things away with a lie about her late grandfather having red hair. At the time, the situation seemed settled, but she could feel a lingering distrust in her husband. With the fear of Mr. Harker discovering her infidelity hanging over her head, Mrs. Harker had felt a coldness growing within her toward her son. “It wasn’t John’s fault, I knew that… But every time I looked at him I saw his face in my mind… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…!” Then, the previous day, when Wataru had brought John home, Mrs. Harker had seen her ex standing across the street. She knew, instinctively, that he had come for John. Mrs. Harker had never told him about how she’d given birth to his son, but he must have heard it from someone. They still had friends in common, after all. When John disappeared with no explanation but for a good-bye note, she’d realized immediately what was going on, but couldn’t bring herself to tell her husband or the police. She knew it was the right thing to do, but no matter how hard she tried, Mrs. Harker could not utter the truth she had been hiding since John was born. Instead, she had screamed and wailed about her son running away or trying to harm himself—it didn’t matter as long as they found John, she’d thought. “But…how were you there just when he tried to take John away?” “Oh, that’s simple,” Akira replied, his smile wide. “John told me the fairies were coming for him today, so I hid outside your house and waited.” Knowing the man would wait until after dark to come get John, when they were less likely to be spotted by other people, Akira had staked out the Harker home starting at dusk. When, as expected, John came out of the house, Akira had tailed him. And then, out in the warehouse district, he’d seen the man sitting in his parked car. “—I had no intention of interfering if John made it clear he wanted to leave with that man of his own volition.” Still smiling, Akira continued, “The man opened the back door and told John to get in, but just then, John looked unwilling. So I figured he didn’t really want to go and stepped in.” Mrs. Harker looked at her son with teary eyes. “Why did you change your mind?” John mumbled his answer to the floor. “…Because I felt like…if I got in that car, I’d never be able to come back here again. I got scared… I saw your face in my head.” Kneeling, Mrs. Harker took his downturned face in her hands and gazed up at him. “But…I…I’ve never been a good mother to you…” “…” John hesitated. Somewhere in his heart, John had probably started to believe he really was a changeling because he didn’t think his mother loved him. Nevertheless— “Well, but…” Desperately trying to find the words, John opened and closed his mouth countless times. When he finally spoke again, his answer was exceedingly simple. He placed a hand gently over one of his mother’s. “…But you’re still my mum.” Wailing, Mrs. Harker hugged him close. Wrapped up tight in her arms, John started to cry, too. He raised his arms, returning the embrace with slightly awkward movements. It may very well have been the first time John and his mother had ever held one another like that. Mrs. Harker was still apologizing—“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for everything, I’m so sorry”—in her tearful voice, but John just shook his head. “—Uncle.” Watching the two of them, Akira suddenly spoke. “Let’s go home,” he said, looking up at Wataru with a smile. Emma retrieved Richart and Arnav from the pub, and they all went home together. Since it was a bit late to start making dinner, they bought some fish and chips from a shop on the way back to the apartment block. The trek home was mostly quiet. Only Lobo and Blanca, excited about the oily smell of fried fish, kept up a steady stream of inter-canine communication. Everyone was thinking about what would become of the Harker family. Mrs. Harker intended to tell her husband the truth; what would he do when he found out? But how things would progress was entirely up to the Harkers, and all anyone else could do was hope the resolution would be even a little bit amicable. Back at the block of flats, everyone seemed to deflate a little. Starting with the search for Akira, way too many things had just happened. The residents were eager to gather around the dining table, eat a meal together, and get back to normal life. But as the rest of them headed for Wataru’s dining room, Akira alone stayed where he was. “Akira? What’s wrong? Come eat.” “—Ah, um, sorry. I’m just not very hungry for some reason.” As he started walking toward the staircase, he seemed to be holding his left arm gingerly. “Akira?” “I guess I’m just tired. I’m just going to go to bed. Good night.” Akira smiled, and he did indeed look exhausted. His complexion was rather pale. Emma scowled. “Akira. Akira, wait. Are you—” Taking several great strides across the room as she called after him, Emma reached out and grabbed Akira’s left arm. His face crumpled at once. “Ow…!” “I knew it! Damn it all, you are hurt, aren’t you?!” Emma pushed his left sleeve up. The area just below Akira’s elbow was horribly swollen and discolored—the red of inflammation mingling with the darker murkiness caused by blood pooling under his skin. Wataru remembered seeing the open car door slam into his nephew earlier. That must have been the cause. This entire time, Akira had been so calm and composed that no one had noticed he was injured. “Ah, ah, ah! Show me! Are you joking?! Look at this! Why didn’t you say anything?! There’s no way it doesn’t hurt!” “F-first aid kit! I’ll go get the first aid kit! Wait, no, should I call an ambulance?!” “Calm down, Arnav. Just sit down for now, Akira.” They steered Akira toward the living room sofa, where Richart carefully palpated his arm. Richart said he didn’t think any bones were broken, but he wasn’t a medical doctor. A hairline or impacted fracture wasn’t out of the question, so for safety’s sake, it was best if Akira was taken to the doctor in the morning. Until then, Wataru did the best he could to stabilize the arm. When he was done, he stared hard at his nephew. “…Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” “I’m sorry, but it’s really not as bad as it looks. I’m fine.” Akira gave him a big smile. Even at a time like this, Wataru thought, at his wit’s end. The boy was in so much pain he didn’t want to eat, and yet… “More importantly, aren’t you glad? For John, I mean,” Akira went on, smoothly changing the subject. “I’m so glad he’s with his mother. Thank you all for helping. I might not have been able to do it by myself.” He grinned at them. All at once, Emma shot to her feet. She looked furious. “Akira! That’s enough!” “Huh?” Akira stared up at her in confusion. Looking at him, Emma seemed about to say something else, but suddenly, her face scrunched up like she was on the verge of tears. Akira’s mouth fell open in shock. “Emma? Wh-what is it? Did I do something wrong?” “…Augh, that’s it! I’ve had it with you, young man…! Akira, come with me!” Grabbing his uninjured arm, Emma hauled Akira into the dining room and made him sit at the table. She stormed into the kitchen, flinging open the cabinet and refrigerator doors with a series of bangs, and began heating a saucepot of milk over the stove. A short while later, Emma set a mug of cocoa down in front of Akira. Akira blinked. “…Emma? Why cocoa all of a sudden…?” “Don’t drink it yet. It’s not finished.” With that, she fished two marshmallows from a bag and plopped them into the mug, where they floated atop the cocoa. “All right. Drink up.” “Um, but why, though…?” “This is a bit of magic my gran taught me a long time ago. Anytime something bad happens, if you drink a cup of cocoa with marshmallows, it’s guaranteed to make you feel better. That is to say, sweet things calm the mind. Even when you’re suffering, having something sweet can help soothe the hurt somewhat. So drink, Akira. I expect you need it right now.” Akira looked up at her and chuckled a little. “…But come on, what would I be suffering about?” “Enough with the lies,” Emma interjected, cutting him off. “When’s the last time you cried, Akira? Or told someone when you were hurting? Now you’ve ended up like this, not even able to say you’re in pain when you’re injured. I won’t stand for it. If you carry on like this, someday, it’ll ruin you.” Gazing into his eyes from up close, Emma spoke like she was desperate to reason with him. But the small, bemused smile on Akira’s face remained, as though he truly had no idea what she was getting at. Seeing that, Emma’s expression turned sad. She cupped his face gently in both hands. “What happened to you, Akira? What the hell made you this way? It’s okay not to smile at a time like this. It’s okay to cry. Why don’t you understand…? Even if you wail and scream, we will all be right here with you.” Akira opened his mouth, then shut it again. He reached out toward the mug of cocoa. “I’m not a little kid anymore, you know. I don’t care about sweets…” “Just drink it… You’re still a child.” Emma patted his head. Wrapping his hands around the mug, Akira picked it up and stared at it for a while, watching the marshmallows melt. Then he brought the mug to his mouth and took a sip. Wiping the marshmallow from his lips, he looked up at Emma again. “This is…really sweet.” “Sure is. Like I said, sweet things are a balm for the soul.” “But I told you, I…” Mid-rebuttal, Akira tried to flash her his usual smile—and failed. At first, he looked like he was laughing and crying at the same time, but it only took moments for the smile to completely disappear. Akira looked down, his shoulders trembling. Several tears rolled down his face and dripped onto the dining table. A small sob he could not stifle leaked out from the depths of his throat. Covering his mouth with one hand, Akira’s head drooped even lower. Curled in on himself in the chair, he looked so small, like he was no more than a helpless child. In that moment, Wataru finally realized that Akira’s smile was his armor. How much had this boy endured all by himself until now, Wataru wondered, just by hiding all his hurt and sadness behind a happy face? “Akira… We’re a family,” Wataru said. “You know, I realized a long time ago that I didn’t exactly hit the jackpot when it came to family. The day they kicked me out of the house, it could not have been more obvious. That’s why, when I bought this building, I decided I wanted to make my own family with everyone who lived here.” That was why he had made it a rule that they all eat supper together. Every day, even when they didn’t have to, everyone gathered on the first floor and spent the evening talking and laughing. When one of them was in trouble, the rest dropped everything to help. If one of them went missing, everyone else tracked them down, even if it meant teaching the dogs to follow a scent. Any way one looked at it, Wataru thought, that was a family, even if they weren’t connected by blood. “You aren’t unwanted, Akira.” Wataru put a hand on his nephew’s head and ruffled his soft brown hair. “You aren’t unwanted. You can stay here forever, with us.” “…I d-don’t, creep you out?” Under Wataru’s hand, it was like Akira was trying to shrink himself to nothing. When he spoke, he sounded so painfully young. “You’re not s-scared? Of me? My being here…isn’t a bother?” “You’re no bother, and we’re not scared of you. Because we know exactly what you are.” “What I am…?” “That’s right. You are my precious nephew, and a part of this family. You’re ours—all of ours. Our boy.” Akira looked up at him. Wataru took the boy’s face in hand and pinched his tearstained cheeks. “Now go ahead and cry it all out. You’re definitely going to be hungry when you’re done, so we’ll do dinner again then. Fish and chips might be a bit disappointing after all, eh? If there’s anything you want to eat, just tell me, I’ll make it for you.” Tears still streaming messily from his eyes as his uncle tugged his cheeks this way and that, Akira smiled just a little. “Tha’ hur’s,” he said, so his uncle pinched his face even more, eliciting another smile. These ones, Wataru thought, probably weren’t armor. These smiles were real. Things were a bit rocky for John’s family after that. Nonetheless, his parents stayed together, and John’s biological father never came looking for him again. His relationship with his mother was still a little awkward, and things with his dad were a bit strained, but it didn’t seem like anything that couldn’t be resolved with time. In the end, Akira was still almost always smiling or laughing. There wasn’t much that could be done to change that, since a smile had become his default expression anyhow. But as he continued to live in the apartment block with the other residents, little by little, he started showing other expressions, too. The residents doted on Akira more than ever. During his vacations from school, they planned family trips, both domestic and international. They traveled to Wales, the Lake District, Edinburgh, France—even as far as Germany and Italy. One day, Akira came to them with a very serious look on his face. “There’s something I want to talk to you about… Um, would it be okay if I invited a friend from Japan to come visit?” Apparently, he and the friend had been exchanging e-mails the whole time he was in England. The possibility of visiting Akira in the UK during summer break had just come up recently. “Akira, don’t tell me you’ve got a girlfriend? Do you have a picture of her?” “Oh, if your friend is a girl, you have to introduce me! Japanese girls are so cute!” “Richart, you can’t try to steal Akira’s girlfriend.” The mention of a friend of his from Japan had everyone in a tizzy, but Akira looked at them with a wry smile. “Sorry to disappoint, but he’s a boy. His name is KenKen; we’ve been friends since we were little. I learned kendo at his house. He’s the real Samurai Boy, not me.” “Did you go to school together?” “No, we went to different schools, but still. We’re friends… We always will be.” Looking down slightly, Akira smiled. It was not a smile they had seen from him before. “Kenji, he—he was the only one who never changed. Even after what happened.” The smile was somewhat lonesome, somewhat nostalgic, and very, very fond. After the incident, everyone around Akira must have looked at him differently. Some probably treated him like an abscess about to burst, while others had just quietly drifted away. It was just that one childhood friend who had always stuck by his side. “—So, um, I have a favor to ask.” “A favor? What is it?” “Before KenKen comes here, I want to completely memorize the streets of London.” “Huh?” “This will be his first time traveling abroad! His English isn’t very good, so I’ll have to be his tour guide… But I get lost right away when I try to use maps…” In other words, he wanted to get the lay of the land so he could show his friend around without issue. Now that Wataru thought of it, though they had vacationed both in and out of the country, they hadn’t spent much time with Akira sightseeing around London. And if possible, he and his friend probably wanted to be able to frolic about the city without an adult following them everywhere. Getting lost along the way would just be pitiful. In response, Emma broke into gales of laughter. “Akira! You’re trying to show off for your friend, aren’t you?! You want to act all cool, like, ‘I live in England, so naturally I know where everything is,’ don’t you?!” “Emma, come on! Don’t say it like that! I just don’t like getting lost!” “Yes, yes, I understand. I’ll show you everything, from the major tourist spots to the delicious back-alley restaurants. I know where you can bring people who say English cuisine is bad, all the best bakeries, all that stuff. Don’t you worry. Next time we both have a day off we’ll make a date of exploring London, all right?” “If it’s good food you want, I can tell you where to go! I also know which cafés all the most beautiful women frequent. Perhaps your friend would enjoy admiring a lovely girl while he drinks his tea, non?” “Hold on, I’ll show you the best Indian restaurants. The best food I’ve had in England has been Indian food.” The entire complex joined forces to take Akira to all of London’s hidden gems, and right around the time he had finished committing all of London’s streets to memory, his childhood friend came to the UK. The moment they met, Richart greeted the boy by bellowing, “Yo! Samurai! Yakuza! Harakiri!” The boy’s face, already quite intense at the best of times, twisted further in utter confusion. Afterward, Akira brought him to the Tower of London, the London Dungeon, and some famously haunted pubs. When they came home later that evening, Wataru couldn’t quite tell if the twitching in the boy’s face was caused by fatigue or something else entirely. About two years after Akira had come to live in England, he told them he intended to attend university in Japan. Naturally, everyone froze at his announcement. They had all expected him to stay in England for the rest of his life. But Akira shook his head. “I can’t stay here forever… I’ve always planned on returning to Japan.” That resolve hadn’t changed with time, apparently, and Akira had even researched schools he was interested in. When they asked what he wanted to study at a Japanese university, his answer was “folklore.” “Japan has a ton of stories like the Irish fairy tales. I want to study things like that in Japan.” “Can’t you just study them here instead?” “Learning about it in Japan would be more meaningful… Besides, I want to do fieldwork and stuff, too.” Akira gave them a bright smile. To be safe, Wataru even contacted Tomoaki about the matter. But as he was told “He can do as he likes,” he had no choice but to reluctantly allow Akira to return to Japan. The boy’s academic ability was superb, and since the school even had a quota to meet for admission of students who had lived abroad, Akira got into his top choice without issue. The day before Akira left England, the apartment block’s residents partied late into the night. It wasn’t as though he would never see any of them again, so Akira had looked a bit exasperated throughout. But Emma, Richart, and Arnav all hugged him, tears streaming down their faces, then followed that up with a great deal of alcohol and even more crying. In the end, every last one of them drank themselves unconscious, leaving only Lobo and Blanca still standing. Wataru accompanied Akira for the journey to Japan. Tomoaki had said he would send someone to collect Akira at the airport, but Wataru couldn’t help but be anxious over the thought of his nephew going back to that house all alone. If necessary, he was prepared to fight both his brother-in-law and his own father if it meant securing Akira a safe place to live… And if that didn’t work, he even entertained the idea of just turning right around and bringing the boy back to England. At the airport, there was a man waiting to pick up Akira. Dressed in a stiff suit that looked expensive but lacked the slightest hint of style, the man introduced himself as Tomoaki’s private secretary. They piled into the man’s car, and he took them—not to Akira’s parents’ home, but to an apartment complex in Yoyogi. He showed them to an already furnished two-bedroom apartment that was far too nice for a college student living on his own. “From now on, you live here, per your father’s wishes. I will be checking in on you periodically, so you should expect as much. This is yours.” The secretary spoke curtly as he held something out to Akira. It was a bankbook and a debit card. Ah, Wataru thought, his heart sinking like a stone. This was exactly like what had happened to him. Tomoaki wasn’t even related to the man, but he was doing just what Wataru’s father had done—handing his son money and severing all other ties with him—to a boy who was just eighteen. As though his business with them was complete, Tomoaki’s secretary exited the apartment without another word. Left standing with the bankbook and card in hand, Akira looked around the room. Wataru couldn’t see his nephew’s face from his vantage point. Anxious, he called out to him without thinking. “Akira…? Are you okay?” “Yeah,” Akira answered, not turning around. “I never expected to be allowed to live at my parents’ place again, so I’m okay.” He looked around his surroundings again. A luxurious sofa set, a huge TV, empty bookshelves. It could have passed for a showroom. “Sort of reminds me of a birdcage, you know? This place. Everything’s so neat, I almost feel like I’m suffocating.” “Akira…” “Do you think he’d be mad if I just sold this place and rented a smaller apartment? I don’t need this much money. Should I just toss it? I’ll work to pay for my own stuff.” His tone was joking, but Wataru could hear a part of him meant it, too. “Akira.” Slowly, he walked around until he was standing right in front of his nephew. He needed to know what kind of expression Akira was wearing that he stubbornly refused to show his uncle. What would he do, Wataru wondered, if he found the same smile from three years ago plastered across the boy’s mouth? The smiling shield that he and Emma and the others had spent three years tearing apart—if Akira put it back on now… But the expression Wataru found himself peering into was one of apprehension that was perfectly appropriate for a boy Akira’s age. Despite his relief, at the same time, Wataru’s heart ached for Akira. From this point on, he would live all by himself, half a world away from his uncle and the people he had spent three years with, in this birdcage of a room. He would be supplied with money, but not love. Akira—far more than those around him realized—was such a sensitive child. He had grown proficient at hiding his hurts and pretending he was fine, but he still got hurt. It wasn’t like he didn’t feel the pain. All Wataru wanted to do in that moment was whisk Akira right back to England. But that wasn’t what Akira himself wanted. “Akira.” He pulled the boy into a gentle hug. Akira had grown considerably over the last three years; they were practically the same height now. Wataru got the feeling Akira would have reached this height a lot sooner if his life had gone differently. His development had been stunted in Japan, but thanks to living with Wataru, Akira had finally been able to recoup his losses. But his days at his uncle’s side were over. “Akira. Be strong.” “Uncle…” “Live with as much determination as you can, and be happy. If they’re going to give you money or a place to live, just take it. Don’t throw it away. Use it, you hear me? No matter what you do, you’ll need money… If there’s something you want to do, use this money to get there.” Wataru spoke those words into Akira’s ear as if conveying crucial instructions, then stepped back and let the boy go. “Listen. Remember this: When things get tough, ask someone for help. It doesn’t matter if it’s me or anyone else. Don’t go it alone… And if all else fails, come back home.” For a brief moment, it looked like Akira was going to cry. But before it got to that point, his face shifted into a pained smile. “…That’s a last resort, Uncle. I’m finally back in Japan.” “As long as you don’t forget you always have a home to return to.” “Yeah, I know,” Akira replied, nodding. “I know,” he said again, ultimately still smiling as he shed a single tear. “Thank you.” Twenty years later, after studying folklore at university, that nephew had become an associate professor of folklore and antiquities. On the flight back to England after having visited Akira for the first time in too long, Wataru stared out the window at the sea of clouds and heaved a small sigh. He was glad he had seen how his nephew lived now. In addition to being as dangerous as ever, the world surrounding Akira was by no means kind to him, but—nevertheless, he was blessed with those who stood reliably by his side, protecting and supporting him. The trip had been worth it just to learn that. Wataru prayed that Akira’s future would, at the very least, be a happy one. As his uncle—as his family—happiness was what he always wanted for Akira. Once Akira made the decision to leave the UK, Wataru’s ability to intervene in his nephew’s life had almost entirely disappeared. That was how Akira had wanted it. Rather than remaining tucked safely under Wataru’s wing, he had chosen to fight. Most likely, it was a fight he pursued to confront his own past. Wataru didn’t know if Akira would win. He didn’t even know if it was possible for him to find any sort of closure. But if this was what brought him fulfillment, Wataru thought he should keep going. The only thing he could do, as the uncle who lived thousands of miles away, was make sure that if Akira ever got tired of the war he was waging—or if, perish the thought, he should be defeated someday—he would always have a place to come home to. The flat Akira had lived in for those three years had been kept vacant for that very purpose ever since.