Chapter 224: Night At The Oyama Family Home! Sukiyaki Engagement Ceremony Reserved! A Bright Future!
Tokyo Television Station, Production Bureau.
The corridor still carried the lingering aroma of morning coffee, and the door to Toshihide Takada’s office was slightly ajar, with faint shadows of several people moving visible through the frosted glass.
When the door was gently pushed open, the first thing heard was classical music, low and slow violin sounds wrapped in the faint scent of tobacco, spreading through the room carpeted in deep brown.
Toshihide Takada sat behind the large desk, fingers holding an unlit cigarette, his gaze fixed on a report at the corner of the desk.
Deputy Director Asumi sat on the sofa opposite him, his beige suit jacket draped over his arm, fingertips unconsciously rubbing the rim of the coffee cup.
Keiko Matsumoto and Eiji Kurosawa leaned against the low cabinet by the window; the former held a finely bound script, while the latter had his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze on the view outside—where a corner of Tokyo Bay was visible, the morning mist not yet fully dispersed, like a thin veil wrapping the distant ships.
“Director Sakata just called, saying《Super Change Change Change》’s ratings rose another 1.2 points last week.” Toshihide Takada spoke first, his voice carrying a subtle ease as he pushed the report toward Deputy Director Asumi: “But he’s more concerned about what that kid Nohara is stirring up in Kumamoto, wants us to keep a close eye.”
Deputy Director Asumi picked up the report, his gaze quickly scanning the numbers, a slight smile curving his lips: “I had my secretary record Kumamoto Prefectural Station’s news yesterday. That little bear called Kumamon is indeed interesting. Much more lively than the cartoon characters our station pushed before.”
“Oh?” Keiko Matsumoto set down the script, curiosity flashing in her eyes: “I haven’t paid special attention, just heard the young folks in the Production Department mention it, something about a ‘bear that wrestles.'”
Eiji Kurosawa finally withdrew his gaze, his face expressionless, but his tone carried a hint of approval: “I’ve seen the sample film. No flashy effects, no grand lessons—just filming it picking oranges for an old woman, haggling with a vendor. It’s more real than those pretentious comedies now.”
Hearing this, Toshihide Takada suddenly smiled, stood up, and walked to the television in the corner.
It was the latest Sony color TV, its screen larger than ordinary home models; he bent down to press the power button, then turned the tuning knob, the snow on the screen gradually fading as Kumamoto Prefectural Station’s logo slowly came into focus.
“Perfect timing, the prefectural station replays the morning short clip at this slot.” He sat back at the desk and pointed at the screen: “Take a look, see what tricks that kid Nohara has come up with.”
All their gazes turned to the television simultaneously.
First came a short prefectural station news segment reporting Kumamoto citrus harvest news; as the screen cut to the advertising slot, upbeat background music started playing.
On the screen, a plump black little bear shook its head; two prominent red cheeks like freshly ripened cherries. It wore a faded striped apron and stood in front of a taiyaki stall, clutching a crumpled 100-yen coin in its paw.
“Boss, one taiyaki for 80 yen, okay?” The voiceover was a deliberately lowered cartoonish tone, with a hint of coquetry.
The old taiyaki seller deliberately frowned: “No can do, little bear. The red bean paste is straight from southern farms; costs are barely covered.”
The little bear immediately drooped its ears, paw pointing to its empty belly, letting out a couple of aggrieved “woo woo” sounds.
The surrounding customers all laughed; the old man couldn’t hold back his smile either, waving his hand: “Alright, alright, 80 yen it is. No haggling like this next time.”
The little bear bounced up happily, took the taiyaki and started to leave, but tripped over its own paw, the taiyaki dropping “plop” to the ground.
It froze for two seconds, then squatted down to carefully pick it up, blew off the dust, and was about to put it in its mouth when the old man handed over a new one: “This one’s for you; that one’s dirty.”
The little bear on screen immediately showed delight, clumsily bowing before waddling away with the taiyaki.
At the end of the short clip, small text appeared in the corner of the screen—”Kumamon, the cute ambassador from Kumamoto.”
The office fell quiet for a few seconds; Keiko Matsumoto spoke first, setting down her script with obvious amusement in her eyes: “This little bear really brings the ‘silly’ vibe to life. I’ve shot romance dramas for so many years; I know how important ‘authenticity’ is—it trips, it gets upset, unlike those perfect cartoon characters, which makes it feel approachable.”
Deputy Director Asumi set down his coffee cup, nodding in agreement: “Keiko-san is right. That kid Nohara is best at capturing this ‘worldly life’ vibe. Look at《Late-night Diner》; it’s not grand bowls of ramen and little stories that touch people? This Kumamon is essentially no different from the diners in Late-night Diner—just ordinary folks’ little lives, wrapped in a cartoon shell.”
Eiji Kurosawa leaned against the low cabinet, fingers lightly tapping the surface, his tone softer than before: “I think this little bear has more ‘soul’ than protagonists in many current samurai films. It doesn’t put on airs—wants taiyaki, so it haggles; drops it, picks it up; even aggrieved, no tantrums—this straightforward nature is a bit like old samurai.”
Toshihide Takada paused with the cigarette between his fingers, appreciation flashing in his eyes: “Kurosawa-san hits the nail on the head. Nohara’s real skill is simplifying the complex. In《Seven Samurai》, he hid class contradictions in samurai-farmer interactions; now with Kumamon, he hides Kumamoto’s local flavor in these short clips. Audiences laugh, and in laughing, remember Kumamoto—this beats stiff tourism promos hands down.”
Keiko Matsumoto flipped through her script, suddenly recalling something: “Right, I chatted with the young folks in Production Department yesterday; they said Nohara specifically told actors not to deliberately ‘act cute,’ just imagine being a little bear just learning to walk—silly is fine. See that fall earlier; other teams might reshoot for imperfection, but Nohara kept it, turning it into a highlight.”
“That’s his cleverness.”
Deputy Director Asumi picked up: “Our station pushed a ‘Tokyo Sprite’ cartoon character before, spent big on 3D modeling, changed outfits a dozen times, but audiences couldn’t remember it. Why? Too perfect, like an emotionless doll. Nohara’s Kumamon is different—flawed, makes mistakes, sticks in the mind.”
Eiji Kurosawa suddenly straightened, his gaze on the screen—
The prefectural station was now replaying another short clip: the little bear helping a fruit farmer pick oranges, paw slipping, oranges rolling everywhere; it hurriedly chased, only to headbutt a fruit basket, oranges spilling all over.
The surrounding farmers laughed; it wasn’t annoyed, just scratched its head and kept picking oranges.
“Look at that tenacity.”
Eiji Kurosawa’s voice held more appreciation: “Falls without complaint, bumps without discouragement, just persistently silly. This spirit touches more than slogan-shouting motivational films. If I were younger, I’d want to collaborate with Nohara on a Kumamon samurai film—like protecting the village orange grove, outsmarting orange-stealing foxes. Would be fun.”
This amused Keiko Matsumoto into laughter: “Kurosawa-san has ideas. But seriously, putting Kumamon in my romance drama might bring surprises. Like as the leads’ ‘love assist,’ handing taiyaki as a reconciliation gift when they argue—sounds fun.”
Deputy Director Asumi took a sip of coffee, eyes thoughtful: “I think it could fit into《World of the Strange》as a unit drama. Like ‘The Talking Kumamon,’ understanding people’s troubles, easing office workers’ stress, dispelling elders’ loneliness. Matches《World of the Strange》’s style, and promotes Kumamon further.”
Toshihide Takada listened to the discussion, fingers tapping the desk, then spoke: “Have you considered acquiring Kumamon’s copyright for our station?”
The office discussion stopped instantly.
Keiko Matsumoto set down her script, surprise in her eyes: “Copyright? Would Nohara let go?”
“I spoke to him on the phone yesterday; he mentioned it.” Toshihide Takada leaned forward, tone serious: “Kumamoto Prefectural Office has local usage rights; image copyright and revenue outside Kumamoto Prefecture are all in Nohara’s hands. He said if our station’s interested, we can collaborate.”
Eiji Kurosawa frowned, tone uncertain: “That kid Nohara wouldn’t hand over copyright so easily, right? Kumamon just took off; huge potential.”
“He’s not handing it over; it’s collaboration.”
Toshihide Takada explained: “Nohara sees clearer than we think. He knows relying on Kumamoto Prefectural Office won’t reach national markets; our station has channels and resources to bring Kumamon to more audiences. Win-win—our station boosts ratings and merch with Kumamon; he expands influence via us, promotes Kumamoto too.”
Deputy Director Asumi immediately got it, approval in his eyes: “Exactly. We can form a dedicated project team for Kumamon promotion in Tokyo and surroundings. Like adding a ‘Kumamon Imitation Contest’ in《Super Change Change Change》, audiences mimicking its moves; unit drama in《World of the Strange》; merch like dolls, keychains, T-shirts in station gift shops.”
Keiko Matsumoto nodded: “I can lead a Kumamon special program, invite entertainers to interact—like making taiyaki together, amusement park trips. Entertainers’ fanbases are huge, drawing more young people to Kumamon.”
Though Eiji Kurosawa said little, he added: “For samurai-themed short films, I can guide. Kumamon in samurai garb, basic swordsmanship moves—fun, spreads samurai culture, ties to my expertise.”
Toshihide Takada watched their enthusiastic discussion, a rare smile on his lips.
As long as they reached consensus, the project was half successful.
With Hiroshi Nohara’s personality, he’d agree to solid plans.
“Then it’s settled.”
Toshihide Takada stood, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray: “Asumi-san, lead the project plan, include what we discussed, emphasize ‘win-win’—highlight our station’s gains and benefits to Kumamoto and Nohara. Matsumoto-san, contact entertainer management companies for special program participants; prioritize nationally popular, positive-image ones. Kurosawa-san, guide the samurai short films—no need for complexity, focus on Kumamon’s cuteness.”
All three nodded, standing to leave.
At the door, Deputy Director Asumi turned back: “Managing Director Takada, when to contact Nohara? I want to discuss plan details soon.”
Toshihide Takada thought: “Called him yesterday. He’s still in Kumamoto, busy with new short films—and marriage talks. Don’t delay him. When he returns, I’ll meet personally.”
“Got it.” Deputy Director Asumi replied, turning to leave.
Keiko Matsumoto and Eiji Kurosawa followed; the office quieted again.
Toshihide Takada sat back at the desk, gaze returning to the TV—now replaying a Kumamon short clip, the little bear clumsily offering a big orange to the camera, red cheeks extra cute in the sunlight.
He suddenly recalled Nohara’s words from yesterday’s call: “Promotion isn’t about memorable images; it’s about memorable warmth of a place.”
He hadn’t fully grasped it then; now watching the little bear, he did.
Kumamon’s fire wasn’t its looks, but the Kumamoto behind it—the taiyaki seller’s kindness, farmers’ smiles, warmth hidden in worldly life.
Their job: bring that warmth from Kumamoto to Tokyo, to all neon.
Toshihide Takada picked up the phone, dialing his secretary’s extension: “Gather all materials on Nohara’s past projects; I need them this afternoon. And arrange for Yoshihiro Shimazu’s campaign team to study Kumamon too.”
Hanging up, he looked at the TV again.
The little bear on screen waved at the camera, like greeting him.
Toshihide Takada’s lips curved into an expectant smile. He knew this plump little bear would soon stir a new storm in Tokyo.
He and Tokyo Television Station would ride that storm into a new era.
About information cocoons and Kumamon collaboration.
Perhaps.
There’s really more to it!
……
Kumamoto Prefecture, Kumamoto City.
The fluorescent tubes in the second-floor studio hummed faintly; pale blue smoke burned to the end between Hiroshi’s fingers. He flicked ash, pencil pausing on the drawing paper—
The sketch of Doraemon in samurai garb had just outlined the shape; the round belly lacked shadows when Misae’s light footsteps sounded from downstairs, followed by urgent knocking.
“Hiroshi-kun! Come down quick! Guests are here!” Misae’s voice carried laughter, audible through the door: “It’s Isshin-san and Misae-nee! They came specially!”
“Mm, coming.” Hiroshi set down the pencil, fingers brushing the paper lightly, gathering eraser crumbs.
He stood and glanced down at the courtyard from the window.
Isshin Fujiwara wore a navy suit, tie impeccably knotted, carrying a refined paulownia wood gift box, following Misae toward the entryway.
Misae wore a light pink dress today, hair neatly combed, ears faintly red; every few steps, she stole glances at Isshin Fujiwara beside her, more reserved than usual.
“Got it, coming down.” Hiroshi replied, tucking the storyboard draft into a folder.
Just out of the studio, he ran into Mage rushing upstairs hugging a doll; the Kumamon doll in her arms had stray cotton threads, crooked red cheeks, yet exuding cute silliness.
“Brother-in-law! Come with me quick!” Mage grabbed Hiroshi’s hand, grip stronger than usual: “Isshin-san brought lots of treats! Your favorite yokan, and my strawberry daifuku!”
Pulled downstairs by her, tea aroma from the living room wafted at the stair turn, mingled with sweets’ sweetness, warm and cozy.
At the living room doorway, Yoshiharu Oyama sat in the host seat, holding a tea bowl, chatting with Isshin Fujiwara, rare gentle smile on his face.
Takao Oyama stood nearby, holding a freshly baked dorayaki, stuffing it into Isshin Fujiwara’s hand while nagging “fresh from the oven, eat while hot.”
Misae sat on a low stool beside Isshin Fujiwara, fingers twisting her skirt hem; hearing her father mention her name, her ears reddened more.
“Hiroshi’s here.”
Yoshiharu Oyama spotted him first, smiling and beckoning: “Sit, just chatting with Isshin-san about Kumamon; he says the prefectural office plans a ‘Special Contribution to Kumamoto Promotion’ award for you.”
Isshin Fujiwara stood quickly, bowing slightly, tone respectful yet familiar: “Mr. Nohara, long time no see. The Kumamon merch oversight I mentioned before—perfect to discuss with you and Uncle and Aunt today.”
He handed over the paulownia wood gift box: “Mother made this yokan and pickles herself; insisted I bring it for you to try.”
Hiroshi took the box, fingertips feeling the wood’s texture, warm.
He sat on a nearby cushion, gaze sweeping the living room—the low table held two copper sukiyaki pots, broth not yet boiling, neat stacks of pink beef slices with even fat, bright-washed crown daisies, enoki mushrooms, and tofu piled on white porcelain plates, appetizing.
“Isshin-san is too polite.”
Hiroshi set the box aside, sipping from the tea bowl: “About the oversight company you mentioned, I have some ideas; with Uncle and Aunt here today, let’s discuss.”
Takao Oyama chimed in smilingly: “Yes, Isshin-san, you don’t know—Hiroshi’s always thorough. When he helped Misae with the manga club, from venue to staffing, all arranged perfectly; business is booming now, publishers approaching for manuscripts.”
Misae beside Hiroshi blushed at her mother’s praise but added: “Isshin-san, Hiroshi designed Kumamon’s manga look too; club’s drawing《Kumamon’s daily》now. When done, we’ll talk publishing with Shueisha!”
Surprise flashed in Isshin Fujiwara’s eyes, admiration toward Hiroshi: “Mr. Nohara is impressive. Chatting with Minister Yamada at the office, he called you a ‘genius who turns ideas into reality’—spot on.”
He paused, turning serious: “Actually, besides the oversight company, something important to discuss with Uncle and Aunt.”
The living room quieted; Yoshiharu Oyama set down his tea bowl, scrutinizing Isshin Fujiwara, silent.
Takao Oyama stopped too, eyes expectant on him.
Misae’s head drooped lower, fingers twisting her skirt harder.
It was obviously something they all knew.
Isshin Fujiwara took a deep breath, stood, bowed deeply to Yoshiharu Oyama and Takao Oyama, tone earnest: “Uncle, Aunt, I’m here representing the Fujiwara family to discuss my marriage to Misae. I know my position isn’t high, income not matching Mr. Nohara’s, but I promise to care for Misae well, no grievances.”
He pulled a small velvet box from his suit pocket, opening it—a silver ring etched with tiny cherry blossoms, not flashy but exquisite.
“Mother passed this to me; Father gave it to her as betrothal token. I want to give it to Misae, hoping for your approval.” Isshin Fujiwara said earnestly.
Misae looked up sharply, tears in her eyes but holding back. She glanced at Isshin Fujiwara, then parents, lips moving silently.
Because parents decide such matters.
Yoshiharu Oyama stared at Isshin Fujiwara seconds, then smiled, patting his shoulder: “Isshin, your aunt and I saw your feelings for Misae long ago. You’re steady, sincere; we trust you.” He turned to Takao Oyama: “Right, old lady?”
Takao Oyama’s eyes teared, nodding quickly: “Yes, Isshin-san’s a good boy. Misae’s fortunate to marry you.”
She went over, took Misae’s hand, slipped the ring from the box onto her ring finger: “You’re an adult now; live well with Isshin-san, got it?”
Misae nodded hard, tears falling but smiling: “Mm! Thanks Dad, Mom! Thanks Isshin-kun!”
Mage hugging her Kumamon doll, watching, tilted her head: “Does that mean engagement tomorrow? Teacher said parents dine together pre-engagement, discuss dowry and trousseau—essential ritual, right?”
Misae’s face flushed crimson; she lightly patted Mage’s head, chiding: “Kids shouldn’t butt in!” But nodded: “Indeed… customarily, parents meet tomorrow noon to settle engagement details.”
Isshin Fujiwara looked earnestly at Hiroshi and Misae: “Mr. Nohara, Misae-san, come to tomorrow’s meeting. Misae said especially you, Hiroshi—like her own brother; you’ll reassure her.”
Hiroshi met Misae’s expectant gaze, smiling: “Of course. Free tomorrow; Misae, you good?”
Misae nodded: “No problem! I can accompany Misae-nee.”
Yoshiharu Oyama, seeing the happy family vibe, stood cheerfully by the low table, lit the alcohol burner: “Enough talk; boil the sukiyaki, beef’s cooling. Hiroshi, Isshin-san, some sake; let’s chat properly today.”
Takao Oyama agreed, adding beef slices to the pot; broth bubbled, meat and sauce aromas filling the air.
She added crown daisies, enoki, tofu sequentially, nagging: “Isshin-san, eat more beef—snow beef from market yesterday, great texture. Hiroshi, help yourself.”
Isshin Fujiwara clinked sake cups with Hiroshi, sincere: “Mr. Nohara, thanks so much today. For the Kumamon merch oversight company, I think Uncle and Aunt should run it. Uncle was middle school dean, rigorous for quality; Aunt great with people for sales. It’s your copyright; with your okay, I’ll handle prefectural office—ensure smooth operations.”
Hiroshi ate beef, tender with perfect sauce.
He looked at Isshin Fujiwara with knowing smile—
He’d guessed his intent when oversight company was mentioned.
Yoshiharu Oyama post-retirement felt idle; oversight uses his strengths, gives purpose.
Takao Oyama loves interacting; sales channels suit her.
“Great idea.” Hiroshi set down chopsticks, serious: “Uncle and Aunt experienced; I trust them. Copyright fine; lawyer preps authorization soon. Prefectural office—trouble you.”
Surprise in Yoshiharu Oyama’s eyes: “Hiroshi, really? I… can handle oversight?”
Hiroshi smiled: “Of course. Years as dean mean strict quality control; perfect for Kumamon merch. And contributes to Kumamoto—you always wanted to help; here’s your chance.”
Takao Oyama beamed, giving Isshin Fujiwara tofu: “Isshin-san, huge thanks. Old man and I will do our best, no disappointments.”
Isshin Fujiwara waved: “Aunt, too polite; my duty. Happy to contribute to Kumamoto, make you happy.”
Mage hugging Kumamon doll, eyeing bubbling pot: “Can I help at the company later? Check doll cheeks sewn straight, sell merch—classmates all want Kumamon dolls!”
Misae ruffled her hair smiling: “Of course! When company starts, you’re our ‘little inspector,’ checking doll quality—good?”
Mage nodded vigorously, eyes sparkling: “Good! I’ll do great, no letdowns!”
Living room buzzed warmer, sukiyaki steam hazing, faces glowing.
Yoshiharu Oyama and Isshin Fujiwara discussed Kumamoto education, touching Kumamon merch oversight; Takao Oyama, Misae, Mage chatted tomorrow’s outfits, engagement banquet flow.
Hiroshi added occasionally, gaze over family, heart steady.
Isshin Fujiwara sipped sake, admiring Hiroshi: “Mr. Nohara, filming Kumamon shorts with you, I knew you were great. Seeing you promote it so well, consider everyone—truly admire. Need help anytime, just say; I’ll do my utmost.”
Hiroshi waved smiling: “No need politeness. All for Kumamoto, loved ones—mutual help natural. Kumamon’s success owes to you, Minister Yamada, everyone at prefectural office.”
He paused, eyeing beef, added: “For Kumamon follow-up promo, planning ‘Kumamon’s Four Seasons’ short series: spring cherry blossoms at Mount Aso base, summer picking oranges, autumn learning persimmon cake from old woman, winter snowman at Kumamoto Castle. May need prefectural office venues/resources—trouble coordinating.”
Isshin Fujiwara nodded: “No problem! Tell Minister Yamada tomorrow for quick setup. Full support; won’t delay filming.”
Yoshiharu Oyama chimed: “Hiroshi, for shorts needing help, tell me. Know farmers, old women—happy to assist. Can review script; no film knowledge, but Kumamoto ways—might suggest.”
Hiroshi smiled: “Great; will trouble Uncle then. With you, shorts better.”
Sukiyaki nearly done; Takao Oyama portioned beef/veggies into bowls, refilled sake.
Laughter and talk wove in living room; warm yellow light bathed all, exuding cozy worldly life.
Mage mumbled eating beef: “Brother-in-law, show me shorts first when done! Take classmates to Kumamon set—see cute Kumamon!”
Misae smiled: “Promise; you’ll see first. I’ll draw filming as manga, share Kumamon stories wider.”
Isshin Fujiwara watched scene, full of emotion.
He recalled early worries of Oyama family pickiness; instead, Mr. and Mrs. Oyama reasonable, Hiroshi and Misae friendly.
Now engagement with Misae, working with Hiroshi for Kumamoto—truly lucky.
“Cheers!”
Yoshiharu Oyama raised cup, smiling: “To Misae and Isshin’s smooth engagement! Hiroshi’s Kumamon shorts huge success! Our family always this happy!”
All raised cups, clinking crisply echoing in living room.
Sake’s mellow aroma mixed sukiyaki scents, warm like a flow into hearts.
Night deepened outside; courtyard cherry tree glowed faintly in lights.
Living room laughter continued, sukiyaki steam rising, faces warmly lit.
……
Isshin Fujiwara opened the door; entryway sensor light lit, warm yellow spilling along wood floor, softening creases in his navy suit.
Air held faint green tea aroma mixed Japanese sweets’ sweetness—Mother Temari Fujiwara’s guest welcome scent; parents still up.
“Back?”
Living room sliding door opened gently; Motomaru Fujiwara’s voice came first.
This graying senior prefectural councilman sat at low table head, holding open《Kumamoto Prefectural Gazette》, reading glasses at nose tip, gaze not on page—clearly anxious waiting.
Beside him, Temari Fujiwara stood, kimono hem brushing tatami, holding warmed enamel tea cup, steam misting rim.
“Sit, sit; had Asnow rewarm tea thrice, lest cold.” Temari handed cup to Isshin, fingertips brushing his sleeve: “Windy out? Forecast said cooling tonight—why no extra jacket?”
Isshin took cup, warm wall warming his heart.
He sat opposite on cushion, placing paulownia gift box by table—Takao Oyama’s softest dorayaki inside, saved for parents.
“Mom, not cold; car heater on.” Isshin sipped tea, roasted aroma he loved since childhood: “Oyama family… went smoothly.”
Motomaru Fujiwara set down gazette, glasses up, scrutinizing son expectantly: “Heard Yoshiharu Oyama was middle school dean, strict on rules.”
Temari leaned in, clutching fresh yokan forgotten: “Yes, Isshin; like Misae—quiet, sensible, handy. But ordinary family—might feel our threshold high, burdened? Voice concerns; we can yield.”
Isshin smiled at parents’ tension.
He knew they worried about Oyama objections, really fearing his hurt in marriage.
Fujiwara prominent in Kumamoto; father senior councilman, key Kumamoto City Council role. Oyamas working family; Misae’s father ex-dean, mother homemaker—”mismatch” to outsiders.
But only Isshin knew father approved not for status, but Misae’s poise, upbringing at last family dinner winning approval.
Father later: “Girl thoughtful, empathetic—beats pretentious rich misses. We lack not pedigree, but good life partners.”
“Dad, Mom, overthinking.” Isshin set cup, serious: “Uncle and Aunt easygoing, no excessive demands. Said if I care well for Misae, no worries handing daughter over.”
He pulled velvet box from pocket, opened—silver ring with tiny cherry blossoms.
“Aunt Oyama sent this as ‘reassurance gift.’ Misae’s grandma’s heirloom; Uncle used it to pledge to Aunt. Now to me—hoping our families like one, harmonious.”
Temari took box, fingers tracing cherry pattern, eyes reddening.
She looked to husband, voice choked: “See? Oyamas reasonable. Misae gives heirloom ring—true intent for life with our Isshin.”
Motomaru Fujiwara silent, took box, examined ring carefully.
His rough fingers, knobby from pen-gripping, touched lightly, as if fragile.
Seconds later, slow nod: “Mm, rules-respecting family. Ring not valuable, but sentiment heavy—beats gaudy gold/silver trinkets.”
