Chapter 1: The Boy on the Beach

Aiko looked out toward the sea. The summer sun rose too early in June, giving her only an hour to collect what she needed for the day. She sat alone on the damp stone ledge of Takoba Beach, knees tucked to her chest. Her black hair spilled down past her waist, loose and windswept, with two blue streaks framing either side of her temples. A bag of scrap metal rested beside her, gathered from earlier that morning.

Across the sand, near the edge of the waterline, movement stirred—the boy was there again. Same time. Same routine. Same green curls catching the morning light. He moved like someone chasing something just out of reach—sprinting, leaping, dropping into push-ups between drills, like if he just worked hard enough, he could become the person he needed to be.

She didn’t know his name, but she’d watched him nearly every day for three weeks. He fascinated her. There was something stubborn in the way he pushed himself, something quietly relentless, even when his legs buckled or his breath caught sharp in his chest. He wasn’t graceful—half the time, he stumbled through his reps or misjudged his footing. But he always got back up. Always kept going. Like he had a purpose. There were worse ways to spend a morning than sitting quietly and watching someone try to shape themselves into something stronger.

His presence brought her a strange sort of comfort, one she hadn't felt in months.

Aiko blinked, then looked away before her gaze could linger too long. She rose with a soft breath, brushed the sand from her shirt, and grabbed the tote by her side. Morning would come fast now. The streets would stir. The world would wake. And she couldn’t afford to be seen.

Aiko moved quickly, her bag clinking softly with each step. The streets were waking up—lights flickering on in shopfronts, the distant rattle of shutters lifting, the buzz of vending machines. She flinched as a bike rolled past, crouching reflexively behind a recycling bin tucked beside a small café. The barista inside hadn’t noticed her. Good.

She waited a moment, then slipped back into the flow of the sidewalk, weaving past stacks of morning newspapers and crates of bottled drinks. Every corner felt like a spotlight. Every passing pedestrian felt like a threat. A delivery truck pulled up beside her and hissed to a stop—she tensed, ducking behind a vending machine selling canned coffee and melon soda.

Just a few more blocks.

She tightened her grip on the strap of her tote and turned into a narrow side street—a quiet back lane lined with crooked pipes and peeling posters. Laundry swayed from overhead balconies. The further she walked, the more the air smelled of metal and charcoal.

Finally, she arrived. An old building with rusted shutters and a hand-painted wooden sign nailed to the wall beside the door. The brushstrokes were uneven, the kanji a little shaky, but clear enough to read: Hoshino Ironworks 星野鉄工所. The ground floor had once been a repair shop, maybe even a forge, but now the windows were blacked out and sealed. Aiko ducked through the side entrance and locked the door behind her.

“Tadaima, Granddad,” she called softly as she stepped inside, slipping off her boots.

From the back room, a low voice called out, “Okaeri, Aiko.”

Tetsurō Hoshino stepped into view, wiping his hands on a soot-stained rag. He was still in his worn leather apron, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with fine grey ash. The forge had left its marks on him over the years—his skin was tanned and weathered, the kind that spoke of decades spent near fire and steel. His hair, once jet black, was now streaked with silver, and his beard—neatly trimmed but stubborn—followed suit, a mix of iron and ash.

He moved with the steadiness of someone who’d learned to trust his own strength, even as time had started to slow him. His dark eyes softened slightly when they met hers.

He looked at the bag she carried. “Found something good?”

She carefully opened it, holding it out for him to see. Inside was a decent haul: a tangle of copper wire, a few aluminum scraps, a couple of dented tools, and a bent steel rod with some life left in it.

He looked pleased. "Good. We'll melt these down later."

She hesitated, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small piece of metal.

“I found this too,” she said, holding it out. It was a broken gear, just a fragment—scorched at one edge, with a blue bead set delicately into the center. A frayed piece of burnt black cord still clung to one of the teeth.

Tetsurō turned it over in his hand, brow furrowed. “Necklace?”

Aiko nodded faintly. “Maybe. It was buried under a pile of old sheet metal. It looked like it had survived something. I don’t know… I just didn’t want to leave it there.”

Tetsurō took it gently, turning it over in his thick, soot-stained fingers. He studied the way the bead caught the light.

“It’s damaged,” he said softly.

Aiko’s voice was quiet. “Like me.”

Tetsurō looked up at her—eyes soft, almost pained. He set the charm down and reached over, resting a warm hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not damaged, Aiko,” he said gently. “You’ve just seen more fire than most. That doesn’t make you broken. That makes you strong.”

He smiled, then picked up the charm again.

“Looks like it’s been through hell and came out fighting,” he added, his tone lighter now. “Just like you.”

Tetsurō placed the piece on a shelf above the workbench, where he kept bits of wire and screws too bent to sell. He’d clean it later. Maybe polish the bead and fix it.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, voice low but knowing. “You saw that boy again, didn’t you?”

Aiko blinked, caught off guard. “What makes you say that?”

“You always bring back more scrap when he’s there,” he said, turning back to the forge. “And you’re lighter on your feet when you come home.”

“I’m always careful,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say careful,” he said, stoking the coals. “I said lighter.”

She looked down at her leg—a faint, irregular burn scar trailed along her right ankle and up toward her calf. It still ached some mornings. She tucked her foot beneath her, out of sight.

“He’s just working out,” she said. “That’s all.”

Tetsurō hummed, like he didn’t quite believe her. “And you’ve been ‘just watching’ for how many weeks now?”

Aiko didn’t answer. The coals crackled softly in the silence. He didn’t press. Instead, he walked over to the small pot on the stove, lifted the lid, and listened to the soft simmer beneath the steam.

“Rice’ll be done in ten,” he said. “Go wash your hands.”

She turned toward the basin, then paused.

“…His hair’s green,” she said suddenly. “Really green. Like sea glass.”

Tetsurō didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth pulled into a smile.

A sharp knock broke the quiet. Aiko tensed. Tetsurō gave her a small nod toward the curtain near the stove. She slipped behind it silently, disappearing into the back room.

The thin cotton muffled the sound but didn’t block it entirely. She listened, holding her breath.

The door creaked open.

“Morning, Hoshino-san,” came a deep male voice. “You finish the repair?”

Tetsurō nodded, not looking up. “The chip was clean. I honed the edge and reinforced the curve. Should hold.”

There was a pause. Paper rustled—probably the brown parcel being handed over.

“Appreciate it,” the man said.

Another pause. Then the quiet scrape of worn boots shifting against the floorboards.

“You’ve got someone else living here?”

Tetsurō didn’t flinch. “Helper.”

“Didn’t think you the type to take on apprentices.”

“I’m not.”

“…Just noticed the small boots by the door.”

Tetsurō’s voice didn’t change. “She’s family.”

That seemed to settle it. But behind the curtain, Aiko couldn’t help herself. She peeked.

Just a sliver of the man was visible—the hem of a tattered coat, scarred shoulders, a long weapon slung across his back, still partially wrapped. But even hidden, the shape was unmistakable. A sword.

Aiko’s eyes lingered on it a moment longer than they should have. A flicker of nostalgia rose. She stepped back behind the curtain without a word.

“Well,” the man said. “Thanks for the work.”

“Anytime.”

The door settled back into its frame with a dull clunk, and Tetsurō slid the heavy iron bolt back into place. Outside, the customer’s footsteps faded down the alley. A long breath escaped the forge as the lingering smell of hot steel gave way to the gentler scent of simmering rice.

Aiko stepped out quietly.

Tetsurō was already at the workbench again, visor pushed up, thick fingers coaxing red-hot tongs back into their rack. He didn’t look up, yet Aiko felt the precise moment he registered her presence—his shoulders loosened by a single notch, the tiniest exhale that said we’re safe for now.

“He noticed,” she murmured, voice barely louder than the hiss of cooling metal.

He nodded once. “People always notice more than they say.”

She looked toward the boots, her voice lower. “Do you think he’ll talk?”

Tetsurō tightened a final screw on the vise. “Doubt it,” he said, “He’s got his own reasons for needing work done off the books.”

Aiko didn’t ask what those reasons were.

“Rice is done,” Tetsurō announced, as though a switch had flipped from blacksmith to grandfather. He lifted the lid, letting a gentle cloud of steam fog his goggles. The smell—nutty, comforting—rushed into the room and pushed the iron tang aside.

Aiko’s shoulders relaxed. She padded to the low shelves, retrieving two lacquered bowls. “I’ll get the pickles,” she said, and crossed to the small refrigerator humming beneath the window.

Tetsurō ladled out perfect domes of rice, turning each bowl exactly once to keep the grains glossy. “And fetch the miso paste,” he added over his shoulder. “We’ll eat, then maybe give that broken charm of yours a look.”

As she sat down, Aiko glanced over at the charm, small smile tugged at her lips. “Okay.”

Aiko’s thoughts drifted to the shoreline—the hiss of the surf, the glare of morning sun on scrap metal, and a green-haired boy whose presence had felt brighter than any spark in the forge.

Tomorrow, when the tide pulled the sea’s secrets back out to deeper water, she’d return to that stretch of sand. And maybe, if timing and luck and a hundred quiet hopes aligned, he would be there again.

✧ ✧ ✧

The next morning, Aiko arrived earlier than usual, breath catching in her throat as she stepped onto the quiet shore. A thin veil of silver mist lingered where the sea met the sky, and seagulls wheeled overhead, crying in long, lonely notes. The tide was low, the sand cool beneath her boots, and the breeze carried a sharper, brinier bite than it had the day before—as if the whole beach had exhaled sometime in the night. But he wasn’t there.

She stood for a moment, toeing the sand with one foot, her tote bag limp at her side. Her fingers tightened around the strap of the bag. She had only just begun to admit to herself that she looked forward to seeing him, and now—

He’s probably just late.

She moved toward the rocks and began her usual routine. She picked through the sand, fingers quick and practiced—bottle caps, bent nails, a corroded washer, the snapped end of a circuit board. Her steps left soft prints in the sand, and the gentle clink of metal filled the silence as she dropped the pieces in her tote.

A few more minutes passed; the sky brightened, but no green-haired boy appeared. Aiko straightened, swiping her bangs out of her eyes. For the briefest moment a knot of something—disappointment?—tightened under her ribs.

Keep moving.

Then, she spotted a washer the size of a coin, lying alone atop an unbroken sweep of sand. Odd. She pocketed it—and froze. Two paces farther sat a ribbon of bent tin glinting dully. Beyond that, the serrated edge of a bottle opener.

A breadcrumb trail.

Aiko’s pulse ticked up. She turned a slow circle, half-expecting him casually doing push-ups or sprinting across the sand again. Nothing.

But she followed—one shard, one cog, one length of copper wire at a time—toward the far end of the shore where he usually worked out. With every step, the breeze teased the hem of her shirt; every clang into the tote was a tiny heartbeat. She began to wonder whether the trail was deliberate or just coincidence.

Then—

The bottom seam of her tote surrendered. Metal clattered out in a messy cascade, ringing like wind chimes on their last breath, followed by a scatter of loose papers.

"Ah—!" Aiko gasped, crouching instinctively as the breeze caught the edges of the pages.

Before she could reach for them, a shadow moved. Someone stepped forward from behind a rusted bin.

Aiko’s breath hitched.

She froze.

It was him.

He stumbled forward clumsily, his wild hair bouncing as he steadied himself. He crouched instinctively and gathered her papers quickly, stacking them neatly in his hand before standing up and handing them to her without looking up.

Aiko took them, though he didn’t quite let go yet.

He stood. They locked eyes.

Whoa, she thought. He’s cute.

Not just in the way girls whispered about boys.
But in the way that made her stomach flutter—like her world had just shifted ever so slightly.

He’s lean but well built, probably stronger than he looks.
His hair is scruffy, his freckles are adorable, his clothes are simple.
He looks determined, driven, like he has a goal to accomplish.
His eyes are tranquil like a valley wrapped in morning mist; they shine like emeralds.
They feel… like home.