The neighborhood of Oshima seemed to hold its breath. It was still early afternoon, but there was something suspended in the air, a subtle vibration, as if time hesitated for an instant before moving on. For the Kibo Delivery boys, however, this was just another Friday that promised to be special. The new van. The show at the old Palace. And the feeling, half-silly, half-true, that they were, finally, starting something big.
On the edge of the hill, among twisted trees and leaning poles like tired old men, Komorebi Coffee remained, not just standing, but blooming. There, where the cracked concrete seemed to give up, Akari Hanami still served tea with steady hands and eyes that had seen more losses than promises kept. The aroma of green tea cake with cinnamon escaped through the door and wound its way through the back garden. There, where a large tree shaded a wooden bench surrounded by worn cushions, was the territory reserved for the Kibo boys.
Obaasan, as everyone called Akari Hanami, had lost much in the 2016 tragedy. Since then, her granddaughter and those noisy Kibo boys were what kept her going – not out of obligation, but because their laughter reminded her that life, stubbornly, still flourished. The boys had helped with deliveries, painting, small repairs... and Daisuke's brother, Daiki, had refurbished much of the place with his own hands. Ayaka's father, when she was still a child, had chosen the wind chime that swayed at the front door. Its gentle sound, tinkling with the breeze, was a silent reminder that this place was not just a cafe. It was shelter.
The five friends were already there. Some arriving from deliveries. Others, from negotiations. Riku and Shun, from the band, were already waiting for them, sunken into the cushions as if trying to postpone the world. Ayaka, Obaasan's granddaughter, appeared carrying a tray with glasses of iced tea, two slices of cake, and matcha cookies. Her smile seemed to have arrived along with the smell of cinnamon.
"Here you go, my favorite customers! You're going to set the stage on fire tonight, right?"
Kazuki, with a crooked smile: "We can set it on fire, sure. The hard part will be playing on time."
"Not fire yet, just light and sound," Daisuke replied with a lazy smile.
Obaasan appeared soon after, bringing more glasses with the firm hands of someone who had once held the world in collapse. Seeing the boys laughing in the corner of the garden, her eyes sparkled for a second, almost imperceptibly, as if she saw there the reflection of something she had lost.
"Eat well, boys. Tonight is going to be a long night."
Ayaka, beside her, tucked her hair behind her ear. "My grandmother says that when you're here, the house feels more alive. Like it was... before."
Obaasan didn't respond immediately. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the leaves of the tree, the same one under which she had planted seeds with her husband many years ago, when he used to say that the world was too small for so many dreams. She blinked slowly, as if sealing a memory so it wouldn't hurt.
"He liked this spot... he used to say it was where the sound of the wind chime matched the smell of cinnamon."
Jin said nothing, just held Obaasan's hand in his and rested his forehead against her fingers. She pretended to complain, but the smile escaped before the scolding.
"That bench is yours. Go on, get going. And don't spill tea on the cushions again, Jin."
They settled into their usual spot, surrounded by trees and a cool breeze. Riku strummed an imaginary melody on his leg. Shun chewed on a wooden toothpick. Hiroito leaned against the tree, eyes half-closed. Kazuki analyzed Matsuda's client notepad.
A few minutes later, Mayu Shinozaki appeared, walking with her serene expression, her long dark hair tied in a messy bun. She wore a light black blouse and jeans ripped at the knees. Without saying anything immediately, she just smiled slightly and sat next to Oliver, who greeted her with a discreet nod. Oliver glanced for a second at the tip of her blouse moving with the wind. Mayu, without looking away, let her gaze linger for half a second longer than it should have. Neither of them smiled. But the silence between them was more comfortable than any pre-made joke.
Kazuki (without looking, teasing both): "Shared silence... is that poetry or an unverbalized emotional contract?"
"The van will be ready at six," Oliver repeated.
And for a moment, no one spoke. Because they knew, it wasn't just a show. It was the first note of a new score. The Old Quarter, wounded and proud, would sing again.
"Show starts at nine. Plenty of time."
"If no one's late," Hiroito commented.
"Hey, I'm not late. I arrive right on time for chaos," Jin replied.
Laughter spread among them. Daisuke took a sip of tea and stared at the treetop. "There's something in the air today... I don't know. It feels like everything's about to change."
Riku, guitar in his lap, strummed a soft chord. "Then let's make it count. How about a warm-up?"
Mayu picked up one of the cookies and said, without taking her eyes off Oliver: "Only if no one goes off-key. Especially those who think they can read me without a score."
Jin immediately pulled an improvised beat on the table with his hands, accompanying the melody. Daisuke slapped his thighs in a percussive rhythm. Oliver watched everything with a discreet smile, while Hiroito just nodded his head, tapping his finger against the edge of the bench.
Ayaka returned from the cafe with more tea and said: "If you make good music here, you'll attract customers. Obaasan will give you a lifelong discount."
Obaasan, hearing from inside the counter, shouted: "No discount! But you can play! You make this neighborhood breathe. When you sing, even the wind seems to dance."
"Yeah, the soul. As for the ear... it still suffers," Jin provoked.
"You should be arrested for fashion crimes," Kazuki said, without even looking, tapping his cup as if rehearsing lyrics that only existed in his head. "Lucky your weird vibe distracts the audience from the off-key sound."
"Jin's fashion is already a historical heritage," Shun added, making the group burst into laughter.
Mayu laughed softly and, without looking at Oliver, said: "Sing something with us?"
"Only if it's sarcastic backing vocals," Oliver said, with the precise tone of someone who rarely improvises. Mayu didn't respond. She just bit the corner of her mouth in a short smile – one of those that don't ask permission to be born. Oliver looked away, but took longer than necessary adjusting the sound cable beside him.
The sound grew slowly. It was improvised, but full of feeling. Voices, hands, laughter, the kind of music that was born from friendship.
"The van will be ready at six," Oliver repeated. "We'll pick it up and go straight to the Palace from there."
"Kibo Delivery's new phase begins with a soundtrack," Riku commented.
Kazuki, with a glass in his hand, took advantage of the music's pause to joke: "I bet no one here remembers the lyrics to the new chorus, right?"
"I do, yes. I just don't sing it so I don't ruin the vibe," Jin replied, already pulling another rhythm with his hand.
Hiroito, silent until then, chewed an onigiri with a satisfied look. He said with his mouth half full: "As long as they don't ask me to sing, I'm just helping with my presence."
Mayu smiled and nudged Oliver: "And you, aren't you going to join in with that usual critical gaze?"
"I am joining in. Internally, I'm writing a full review," Oliver replied, raising his glass slightly in greeting.
Ayaka sat for a moment on the edge of the bench, laughing at the interaction: "You guys are chaotic, but I love it. Your energy always improves the mood here."
From the kitchen doorway, Obaasan watched in silence. The tray in her hands was already empty, but she didn't seem in a hurry to return. Her eyes—full of wrinkles and memories—lingered on the boys' smiles as if contemplating an everyday miracle. There, under the shade of the tree and the tinkling of the wind chime, there was no tsunami, no absence. Just good noise.
"Keep it up, boys," she finally said, her voice filled with something between tenderness and longing. "The world changes outside... but in here, it's still home."
And among chords, teasing, and green tea cakes, the group celebrated. The music was crooked, the sound was improvised—but there, at that moment, it seemed enough to keep the Old Quarter breathing for one more day.
The wind blew gently through the garden trees, swaying the wind chime with an almost melancholic sound. A sound of late afternoon. A sound of pause before change.
When the clock hands struck six, the group had already dispersed with the same naturalness of someone who always knows where to go. Some collected glasses, others finished half-sentences. A farewell without formality, as if it were just another day—even if everyone felt, deep down, that it wasn't.
Obaasan tidied the cushions with a care that went beyond hygiene. Her thin fingers slid over a poorly made seam—made by her son, many years ago. He loved to sit on that same bench, play guitar and sing Ayaka to sleep. When he left, on that morning in 2016, he said he'd be back in an hour. He never returned. Since then, the bench remained. The tree's shade too. But it was only with those boys, chaotic, noisy, full of dreams and scars, that the sound of life returned to occupy that corner of the world.
Komorebi was left behind, small and warm like a distant point of light. Uncle Fio's workshop, on the other hand, was anything but subtle. The old mechanic, pot-bellied, with his overalls stained with grease and a wry smile, waited for them with his arms crossed beside the van. The cold light of the streetlights was already beginning to turn on, reflecting on the freshly painted dark body. It looked different. So did they.
"There she is, kids. Refurbished, adjusted, and with more style than you've ever had."
The van was almost something else entirely. The same chassis, with a new soul. New dark-toned paint with purple details. Replaced wheels and tires, dents precisely corrected. On the roof, a stylized rack with a side ladder. The front sported an off-road light bar, and inside: new carpet, leather seats, a stylized steering wheel, soft internal lighting. It almost seemed excessive. Almost.
"All courtesy of Daiko," Uncle Fio said. "Including the dual wrapping: Aoi Wave and Kibo Delivery. You're fancy now."
The group gathered around the van, eyes gleaming. Kazuki (as he walked around the vehicle): "Look at that... did we grow up, or did they just wrap our illusion in purple and black?"
Jin ran his fingers over the hood with theatrical exaggeration. "She's beautiful... Can I drive now?"
"No," they all said in unison.
"You can't even drive a shopping cart," Daisuke commented, without uncrossing his arms.
"Last time he drove, the scooter turned into a runaway missile," Hiroito added.
"You guys have no artistic vision," Jin grumbled, affectionately patting the body.
Oliver, as he walked around the vehicle, checking every detail, responded to Jin's provocation: "The last guy who confused impulse with talent sank Troy. And he wore armor."
Jin then ran his hand more carefully over the paint, now with a restrained glimmer in his eyes. "We started delivering sushi on skateboards... and now this. Are we really growing up?"
Daisuke replied in a dry but sincere tone: "I don't know if it's growing up. But it's moving forward."
Oliver, more acid: "Adults are the ones who pay the bills."
Laughter spread, momentarily relieving the weight of the moment. But deep down, they all knew: something was changing.
Kazuki approached the side door, opened the rear compartment, and saw some well-organized boxes. "And what's this?"
Uncle Fio snapped his fingers, as if remembering at the last minute: "Ah! I almost forgot. Your first delivery as van owners. Mr. Daiko's order. And he wants it today."
Oliver stepped forward, already frowning. "What do you mean, today? We agreed all Aoi Wave deliveries would be scheduled in advance."
"I'm just passing on the message, kid. The cargo's ready. Back of Mr. Oko's shop. You know where it is."
Daisuke, direct, cut the tension: "It's already in the van. So we deliver. Then we charge." As he walked to the van, he added, "What's the delivery number?"
"It's written on the top box," Uncle Fio replied, pointing with his chin.
Jin had already stuck his head inside the van, balancing one of the boxes on his knee. "It's here: 'Special delivery, Mr. Oko's shop, back access. Discretion.'" He paused theatrically. "Discretion? With this van? We're going to look like a cosplay band transporting plutonium."
Hiroito took the box with one hand and quickly read the label. "Right address. Light weight. Must be just stock. Or... something more interesting."
Kazuki, picking up the keys from Uncle Fio, added: "We agree on the game, but Daiko changes the rules. Nothing new. Let's go before he invents another round."
"Great," Oliver muttered, writing in his folder. "We're starting our new phase with informality and improvisation. Excellent."
Kazuki stood between the two, spinning the van key between his fingers, with a half-smile. "Well... at least we have a client. Let's get this done. And no accidents, Jin."
"You guys kill art before it's born," Jin grumbled, hitting the side of the van.
"Go, first mission for our machine. Go all out."
Inside the van, they found two rows of seats, three in front, three right behind, and the rest of the space free for cargo. Daisuke went straight to the steering wheel, as if it had always been decided. "Someone has to keep this thing in one piece until the next turn," he said, snapping his fingers before turning the key.
Oliver and Kazuki immediately took the seats beside him, both calling themselves copilots. "Let's take the back route off the avenue, then cut through that alley under renovation," Kazuki suggested, already unfolding a crumpled map.
"Or we stick to the route with no wrong-way streets, no construction, and no chance of being crushed by a concrete mixer," Oliver retorted, typing on the GPS.
"You only like boring paths," Kazuki scoffed.
"And you live as if dancing on the edge of an abyss. Nietzsche would call it art... I call it recklessness."
Hiroito from the back seat: "Want me to decide? The route with the least chance of explosion, please."
Meanwhile, Hiroito was already in the back seat, settled in the corner, arms crossed, looking perfectly comfortable with the extra space. Jin entered last, complaining: "This seat? It's made of cement and regret. I can feel every wrong decision of my life in my back."
"Want me to call an Uber just for you, Your Highness?" Daisuke said, without looking back.
"Be quiet and sit properly," Hiroito muttered, giving Jin a light tap on the back of the head, who grumbled and crossed his arms like an angry monkey.
"You guys only hit me because you're afraid of my genius," Jin replied, settling into the seat.
The van purred with a new engine, but the asphalt's vibration still made the steering wheel tremble a little. The city lights began to turn on along the narrow streets of the Old Quarter, painting reflections in old rain puddles and on the dirty windows of the buildings. Oliver, in the front seat, checked the map on his phone while Kazuki argued about faster shortcuts. Daisuke kept his hands firm on the steering wheel, cutting across the avenue as if he knew every pothole by name. They didn't talk much on the way. Just low music on the van's radio, and that comfortable kind of silence that only exists among those who have faced worse.
As they turned the last corner, the half-faded sign of Mr. Oko's shop appeared like a familiar shadow. They parked in the back. The shop always looked the same, as if it refused to age, or as if time had learned to respect it. Oko waited for them with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall as if he didn't need a clock.
"You got here fast. I like this new service already."
"Special delivery from Aoi Wave," Oliver said, carrying one of the boxes.
"Put them over there, in the old house's basement," Oko instructed, pointing to a discreet side door.
As they unloaded, Oko commented: "I'm surprised this van hasn't fallen apart yet."
Hiroito, with several boxes in his arm: "If it breaks, we'll carry it by hand. We always carry."
"It was rebuilt with hope," Kazuki replied.
He paused, his eyes fixed on them for a moment, a glint of suspicion. "And I heard some rumors you're going to make some noise at the Palace today. 'Symphony,' they say. As if this neighborhood doesn't have enough noise already. From construction, from sirens, from broken promises."
Oliver exchanged a quick glance with Kazuki, then turned back to Oko. "We're trying to make a different kind of noise, Mr. Oko. One that people want to hear. One that makes them remember."
Oko gave a nod, more a gesture of weariness than agreement. "Remember? Here, no one remembers anything for long. This neighborhood only knows one rhythm, boys. The rhythm of broken concrete. And it always wins. Now, hurry up, I have other things to do."
After finishing the delivery, the group went straight to Palace 100/4. The side entrance of the old hotel still bore the marks of time, but the garage, partially restored, already pulsed with wires, lights, and tools. In the corner, kneeling near the power panel, was Daiki Uchida, Daisuke's older brother, in stained blue overalls, marked by paint splatters and hand-reinforced seams, fingerless gloves revealing calloused joints and nails eternally dirty with grease. A wrench between his teeth, as if his mouth was just another tool in the arsenal of a man who couldn't stay still. His strong arms, marked by scratches and discrete bruises, revealed the routine of someone who fixes what the rest of the world ignores. His black hair, short and messy, stuck to his sweaty forehead as he adjusted wires with a surgeon's precision, or like someone who learned to survive by making as few mistakes as possible.
Daiki's presence commanded respect without needing a word. He was the kind of man who made time slow down around him, not by mysticism, but by the practical solidity he carried. Every movement was sure, methodical, as if making mistakes was a privilege he never had. Around him, the hum of electricity, the metallic smell of welding, and the yellowish light of flickering lamps seemed to follow his rhythm. As if the entire building, wiring, brick, and concrete, breathed better when he was around.
For the younger residents of the building, Daiki was a mix of caretaker, older brother, and a living legend. He never said he cared, but he was always there: repairing pipes, reinforcing windows before the rain, showing up with fresh bread at 6 AM on delivery days. Apartment 101, where he lived, was given as payment by Daiko, a silent thank you for renovating the building and for years of discreet but vital maintenance. Daisuke knew his brother didn't consider it payment. For him, the building was a life project. And perhaps, his comfortable prison.
Daiki stood up with a crack of his knees, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm. His eyes met Daisuke's, and, for a second, all rigidity gave way to something simpler: silent pride.
"Were you waiting for a show, or are you going to help finish this up?" he said in his usual dry tone, but without disguising the relief of seeing them.
Daisuke approached and exchanged a firm handshake with his brother, with a look that needed no words. "Thanks for coming. I knew I could count on you."
"You only count on me because you know no one else can handle your electrical mess," Daiki replied, without smiling, but with a gleam of pride in his eyes. He looked at the others, especially Kazuki. "And you guys... don't let this idiot blow up the speakers like last time."
"It was experimental art," Jin muttered.
"It was a short circuit and a fine," Daiki retorted.
Hiroito nodded respectfully. "The wiring is impeccable, Daiki."
"Of course it is. I didn't learn it in school, but I learned it by getting beaten up by life."
Daiki gave a final check on the panels, closed his toolbox, and looked at his watch. "I have to go. Junko must be finishing his homework. I promised I'd have dinner with him today. I can't miss it."
Daisuke, for a moment, hesitated. His tone softened. "Thanks for coming. Even when you're tired. Even when you're always rushing for us."
Oliver, looking at the power panel. "Junko is lucky. Many grow up without heroes nearby. He has one at home."
Daiki paused for a second, looked at his younger brother, and just gave him a light pat on the shoulder, firm and silent. "Make this show right. Junko is dying to hear the recording afterward." Before leaving, he cast a last look at the equipment. "And keep this thing intact. I only fix it for free the first time."
"But isn't this the third time already?" Jin muttered.
Hiroito slapped Jin on the back of the neck and Oliver completed, saying very quietly, "Actually, it's the fourth."
He gave a short nod and left through the side entrance, leaving behind not only the smell of welding and paint, but also a sense of firm and discreet support, the kind of foundation that sustains everything without ever asking for the spotlight. He said goodbye to everyone with quick hugs and words of encouragement, took his only car, which he uses for his own transport and that of his younger brother, as well as for services.
Shortly after, the band's van—Riku's minivan—arrived. The musicians got out with instruments, cables, and equipment. Soon, the garage became a sea of movement. They set up the drums, tested the lighting, adjusted the sound. In the middle of it, one of the boxes fell on Jin's foot.
"This is sabotage!" he yelled, hopping on one foot.
"It's karma for the juice you spilled yesterday," Kazuki replied.
Meanwhile, Mayu adjusted the microphone stand on stage with almost mathematical precision. Her eyes scanned the equipment, the cables, the monitor—everything had to be perfect. Beside her, Oliver finalized the tests of the side lighting, tightening the last fittings of the support, while observing the stage from another perspective: not just technical, but aesthetic.
"Warm light in the back, soft in the corners... it suits your mysterious style," Oliver commented, without taking his eyes off the adjustment.
Mayu didn't even turn around, but replied with that tone that sounded somewhere between disinterest and irony: "Mysterious? I thought it was just laziness to talk."
"One doesn't exclude the other."
She then turned, resting her arms on the stand, looking directly at him. "Will you judge me if I say I'm nervous?" Oliver stopped turning the screw. The silence lasted a second too long. "You? Nervous? I thought you'd give nervousness itself the chills." He moved closer to Mayu, and said softly, just for her to hear. "The stage is a beautiful lie. But sometimes... it's the only one where the truth can stand."
Mayu pulled away, blushing and awkward. "I just don't like making mistakes when there are... specific eyes watching me."
Oliver held back a laugh, his lips twitching slightly, but his blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "Are you going to sing looking at me again, is that it?" Mayu responded with a half-smile, almost imperceptible: "Maybe. If you deserve it." He just nodded, arranging the wires more slowly than necessary.
The stage light flickered one last time. The speakers went silent. Outside, the first steps of the audience echoed through the concrete of the old Palace. Mayu slowly stood up, ran her fingers over the hem of her shirt, and looked at her wristwatch.
"Forty minutes left."
Oliver stared at her for an instant, then looked away at the empty stage ahead. "Time to warm up our souls."
Without further words, the two walked silently down the side corridor. The sound of their own footsteps was muffled by the heavy fabric of the curtain. Before crossing the curtain, Mayu took a thin ring from her index finger and placed it on the stand, right next to him. "Don't let me forget to pick it up later." Then she left.
Oliver looked at the ring for a long moment. It was small, but it had weight. It didn't seem forgotten, it seemed left. As if she wanted him to remember.
Throughout the hall, tension spread in small gestures. Shun leaned in a corner, chewing gum with his gaze lost on the floor. He muttered softly, strumming an imaginary groove on invisible fingers. Riku, isolated in the dimness of the stage, tuned his guitar strings like someone sharpening a blade. His eyes closed, his breath held, almost in a trance. Daisuke carefully wiped the surface of the cymbals with a cloth, as if cleaning more than dust, cleaning tension, distractions, thoughts. He adjusted the ring on his finger and tested the pedals twice, without sound. For him, that stage was not just a stage. It was territory. And there, he protected the group with rhythm.
Mayu, now in front of the dressing room mirror, slowly ran her fingers over the handle of the stand. She took a deep breath, as if trying to anchor her soul in her body, and whispered to herself: "It's not just music. Not today."
Oliver, on the other side of the dressing room, watched her reflection. He thought about saying something, just a phrase, a distraction. But he only tightened, with unnecessary firmness, the last screw of the light stand.
Kazuki putting on his headphones and trying to motivate the whole group: "It's now. Either we break everything... or you deliver another show no one was ready to hear."
In the dressing room, the world was already beginning to change. But for now, only the muffled sound of the light being tested, the creaking of an old amplifier, and the rustling of strings being tuned could be heard. Outside, Oshima exhaled a strange silence—the kind that precedes applause... or disasters. But there, for a brief and precious moment, everything seemed in place.