Mother used to tell him, "There lies a land far beyond our horizon, where fireworks dance like angels of the sky and each spark carries a man's dream of affluence down to the soft earth, and crumbles into dust."

The younger Osamu had never imagined the day his own two feet could take him somewhere as far as the horizon where the blue blanket of sea stretches to infinity - and even more. At most, he and his twin Atsumu would see their father off at Hyogo port near their home, watching the ship sailing afar until it was a mere dot under the sky, swallowed in the waves splashing against the shores. The twins only lingered around the little island where the port laid, playing kites, climbing trees, helping their mother, letting the day pass by, never stepping into the lands and waters that borders it. Nevertheless, they are content with the company they offer one another, and their mother too - all while hoping their father comes home again.

And that day, Mr. Miya was to be home.

Summer winds rattled through the old iron bell in an irregular and unharmonious melody, the damned, rust-coated cacophony ransacked of all spirit and ready to succumb into the forgotten past. Osamu cussed the bell the moment he was woken up by the jaded sound, from napping in his mother's lap and sheltering himself away from the grim heat of afternoon. She, per usual, was avidly reading while letting her son drool on her apron, gray eyes skimming words with ceaseless focus.

- Did ya wake up? - She said softly, focusing on the paper in her hands.

- Whaddya reading, ma? - He perched up, holding her arm, mumbling the words "Sa...Sapu..."Sappho. - She murmured and closed the book. Folks candidly judged her voice as offbeat and ice-cold, save those of her family who had grown so familiar with its ebb and flow. Osamu gaped at her, bewildered at her dulcet articulation.

Atsumu was sitting criss-cross next to him, struggling to write kanji on the bamboo cards, the hand with the brush shaking. Hiyori nudged her son, whispering into his ear with a playful grin:Go help your brother. He's not doing well.

Osamu pouted, shaking his head:

- Let 'im be. It's not my fault 'Sumu is baaaaaaaad. - He drew out the "bad" word, the worst one he had yet. Atsumu huffed, signaling a "I heard that" and raised a fist, before earning a glare from their mother and then cowering.

She chuckled, drumming her calloused fingers onto the book. Then she spoke:

- I've a friend in America who gave me this book. Do ya remember Miss Mari?

He nodded, eyes glinting in interest.

And she hugged him, murmuring her stories. Of a landscape celebrating New Year's gaiety, fireworks ablaze when the clock struck twelve. Of seagulls that had swooped down to admire the ethereal sparks of sunlight sunk into the ocean. Of women in silk dresses and grins daubed on the sanguine faces, maybe colored by the honey-brown eyes and rosebud lips of Miss Mari.Of maybe the fleeting curiosity that urged him to go see things for himself, though impossible.

- Why did ma leave her? - Osamu asked. - Do ya miss her, ma?

She stayed silent, drumming her fingers on the book and staring afar, softly speaking, "Oh, yeah, yeah I do..."

***

The last rays of the sun cascaded over their heads as the twins, after a fun afternoon of butterfly-catching, stood on the highest of hills, watching lush grass roll down the gentle slopes and then crushed by the dirty concrete of the port, some of the blades rising above and blooming into tiny, white flowers. They looked up at the sky now burnt with the crisp hues of sunset and wispy clouds tainted in that orange shade, and let it illuminate the corners of their face. Atsumu then stared at the ships slowly disappearing from their sight as waves slowly rolled into the shores, cloaked in the sunset's beautiful color. Osamu sensed that Atsumu had something to say.

- Hey Samu, yano what I'm thinkin'?

- Yes, Tsumu?

- Look a' that. - He gestured at one of the ships, now a tiny dot in the distance. Osamu knew what he was getting at and nodded slowly, looking at the sea where Atsumu was pointing at.

- Pa say'd them just go 'round an' round da world fo'ever. It's like they live on the sea. Even pa was on it. Wack, isn't it, an' pa won't even take me with 'im. D'ya remember pa say'd one day we'll be out there with them? T'be fair, I ain't wanna be in this place fo'ever, I wanna see the world with him. With ya too, Samu. So promise me, that you'll see the world with me, yeah?

Osamu squinted his eyes and tried to take in his brother's expression. There was nothing flippant about that look of his - only a glint of determination and heart. Or was it the sun that was reflected in his eyes, or was it of his excitement?

- Since when do ya think of this crap?

- Hah!? I just thought o' it, yano; dad's not been home fer so long I kinda become an old man.

- Yeah sure, not that yer an ol' man from the start.

- Hah! Don't act like ya ain't miss him too, dummy. I bet all my ten fingers ya missing him; ya missing 'im sooo much it's pathetic. Ya gonna miss 'im so much, an' he ain't gonna go hug ya, he ain't gonna let ya sleep with him.

Atsumu raised a fist and towered over his brother, before calming down.

- But honestly, whaddya want? I think everyone's just so stuck-up 'ere and happy-with-what-they-have 'ere, and it makes me crazy. They ain't have nothin' better to do, and ain't ever do anythin' special in their lives. I ain't wanna live like that, an' ya too, aren't ya?

Osamu fiddled with his hands, one foot crossed over the other.

- Not exactly. I wanna be, like... ma?

- Ma? Why? Do ya wanna stay here fo'ever? Ma just stays at home all the time an' takes care o' us. Ya don't even like sewin' an' girl stuff. Ya don't even play with the other kids, whaddya gonna do if I go an' leave ya alone?

Questions streamed out of Atsumu's mouth instantly as he shook his brother's shoulders. Osamu said he promised to go explore with him? Does it mean Atsumu would be without his father? What would they even do? He doesn't even like half the chores ma asked him to do? Atsumu was utterly perplexed, but the questions sounded harsher than what he truly intended to say.

- Get off me, ya pig. - Osamu grabbed the sweep-net beside him and hurled it at Atsumu's shin. He slithered out and stood up as Atsumu winced in pain; the boys' bodies now covered in dirt and leaves of grass. - I wanna be like ma cuz I wanna cook. I wanna cook so good that everyone who ever picks up my food will smile. I wanna open a restaurant with my own name, heck, an' I'll be rich enough ta go ta Osaka an' Tokyo, even 'Murica.

Atsumu remembered that his mother was a great cook. Every evening the house would be filled with the sizzling sounds and fragrant smells wafting from the kitchen, and Atsumu had to beg her for a small bit of hot, smoking food on the spoon before dinner arrived. He even remembered her telling him stories when he and his brother were slowly drifting off to sleep, comforted by the cicadas chirping. To him, her stories were never as explicitly as his father's, and so Atsumu thought all this while, she was already here when she was born, and everything she told him was about her living here with her friends. She did not even tell him how she came here, how she went anywhere else.

- She... she went to all those places? How d'ya know? - Atsumu scoffed, refusing to believe what his brother was rambling about.

- Yes, she did. She lived there. I wanna live an extraordinary life like her; I just don't wanna see places, I wanna live there.

The sun was now almost submerged in the sea. They had to be home, or else Hiyori was going to be fuming mad. And the twins fully knew they did not want to make her mad.

- Get home, ma will definitely worry. And I'ma ask her 'bout it. Ma didn't even tell me about those things. Betcha just imaginin' things.

Atsumu skipped home, whistling, and stubbornly pushing what his brother had said out of his mind - he was too young to care about these things anyway. Osamu followed behind with the sweep-nets, like a dwindled moon at sunrise. Atsumu was young and reigned by the soul of the explorer, as his robust father was, while his brother had the composed attitude of his mother. People told them they were "a blessed pair of twins for a blessed couple", not that the twins knew what they meant. He saw from the corner of his eyes Atsumu stopping ahead of him, waving and yelling, urging his brother to race home with him. Osamu concealed a chuckle behind his hand.

- Wait fer me, ya dipshit.

And he ran, leaving the beautiful scenery behind him as the last rays of dusk began to leave the earth, the water and its waves twinkling an ethereal sort of beauty, veiled by golden dust of sun.

***

Once in a while, Mr. Miya retreated from the life on sea, one he dubbed glamorous, to the solace and joy of home, of his wife, and of his children. Days before, a letter sent to Mrs. Miya announced her of his return, and so spun into life the merriment of the twins, of light-hearted laughs strung with old stories of his countless adventures, the enthralling tales of his adventures.

- Are we meetin' him at the train, ma? - Atsumu groaned, banging his head on the small, wooden table and wiggling his body around on the floor. Atsumu was clearly excited, while Osamu sat completely still and quiet. That did not mean Osamu was indifferent to the news of his father coming home - as seen in the excitement in his eyes and the way his ears perched up to hear anything Hiyori said about it.

- No, Tsumu, it's night now, he'll come home himself. Sit with yer brother an' wait fer dinner nicely, alright? - She tucked a stubborn stray hair out of Atsumu's forehead and went back into the kitchen, preparing food.

Atsumu clinged onto her dress, demanding an answer. Osamu tried to separate them, as mother and son pulled about back and forth, back and forth, back, forth, back, forth-

Rip.

Atsumu fell, pushing the table back, fist clenching with a torn piece of fabric tousled in his palm. Faint scars stretched in long lines down her leg, purple marks littering along the calf and sleek with smeared oil. The twins stared at her, horrified at the abnormal, fading wounds on her leg.

- Get out! Don't come here unless I call you! - She shrieked. Atsumu sat numb and silent, stopped asking his questions and slumped against the wall, only breathing and hanging his head low, dejected.

- Tsumu, let's go back to our room. - Osamu said. Atsumu shook his head. - Here, jump.

Osamu carried his brother on his back, like a piggy-back ride on their way to their room, as he had always been superior in strength between the two. He ignored the snot accumulating on his shoulders, knowing too well the rhythm of piggy-rides could calm his brother in no time. They have done this too many times,and after each ride, Osamu could not help it but feel a little relieved.

Nonetheless, up in his mind still reverberated the picture of his mother's bruises, and he wondered if there was anything else beneath the dress she wore.

***

- I'm home.

Mr. Miya creaked open the door, to the sight of his children sleeping by the genkan, their backs slumped against the walls.

At least sleep on a futon, kids. I'm back.

The twins woke up and ran into their father's arms. Peals of laughter, of Mr. Miya and of Atsumu, rang warm, soothing somewhat the hot, lonely summer night in their short reunion. Then Mr. Miya took something out of his leather pouch, the one hung by his waist in all of years and youth traversing the seas.

Osamu's eyes glittered at the sight as his brother kicked his feet around in anticipation. Gifts. Gifts. The best part of their father being home yet - whenever he left for the seas, he always promised to bring them a gift of some kind, let that be coins, little statues for souvenirs that were soon to break sooner or later. Even the pretty combs for their mother, they stole them behind her back and ran their hands through the intricate, curvy patterns and funny-looking animals. But this time was different - they both wanted the American stamp - the one with the American Indian on it. "I'm g'nna get that damn thing an' sho' it to other kids 'round. I wanna see their faces." "Like they would care 'bout a funny-lookin' man with feathers in his hair." "Well shut up, Samu, don't act like ya ain't excited either."...

- Samu?

Mr. Miya gently held Osamu's hand in his and slipped in his present. Red threads of paint intersected the old stamp paper as if the stamp itself had been embroidered. It was pretty, he had to admit, as a laurel wreath enveloped the picture of a man, looking west, head held high like a champion, adorned with the British crown. But Osamu couldn't help but feel a little sad as he fumbled with the stamp itself, nothing like he had hoped for.

- S'rry Samu, I know yer one good kid. But ya have to know yer brother wants a stamp too, yeah? And I could only find one 'Murican stamp, so I bought this British stamp fer ya. I promise, I'll get ya the one ya want next time. So I think ya could make a little sacrifice to yer brother, am I right?

Osamu squinted, glancing at an Atsumu with a little grin and chiming titters, beholding his gift in the dark and basking in hilarity. He hesitated before muttering a thank-ya, tucking away his present behind his back.

- Thank ya, 'Samu. I knew ya'd always understand. - Mr. Miya smiled proudly at his son and patted his head, a sign of affection Osamu had always treasured.

He retreated into his room quietly, followed by a curious Atsumu hovering around, aiming to capture his brother's expression.

- 'Samu. 'Samu! 'Samu, hey!

- What? - He grumbled as he turned around, drying his tears off with his elbow, knowing Atsumu was adamant to not let this go unnoticed. Osamu was not sure why he cried; he just wished Atsumu did not see any evidence. Atsumu, however, made no mention of the remaining tears reflected from the oil light like a layer on Osamu's cheeks.

- Wanna change stamps? I can't believe yers is cooler than mine. Ya can get my American one, if ya like feathers in yer hair that much. - Atsumu joked, aiming to lighten the mood. - Ya know, I dunno why you would want this one so much, you've had things like these all these years now.

And ya still think ya'd get the better present huh? - Osamu snatched the American stamp, wasting no chance to taunt his brother. - Are ya sure? Don't ya come beggin' fer me then. Ya ain't gettin' nothin' back once the deal closes.

- I know I know damnit. Here, pinky swear, ten thousand punches, whoever lies will be made to swallow a thousand needles.

- Pinky swear, ten thousand punches, whoever lies will be made to swallow a thousand needles. 

Whatever they were doing was not that similar to a promise, more like bartering, but Osamu and Atsumu threw in the pinky-swear-declaration nevertheless. Atsumu would demand to have his American stamp back, and they would quarrel until their mother had to get her hands in again, but he carried on with the promise. Not sure why he did it though; he only knew it comforted him at the moment. Osamu remembered having never made such a promise to any other kids on the island before except for his twin brother, and he would be fine that way.

Osamu retreated to his (and his brother's room), looking at the pristine ink drawing of the stamp. The man was bestowed a face of reverence and wisdom, hair with the prideful feathers like soaring seagulls of the sky, and a chin held high. American Indian, 14 cent. More beautiful than all he had seen, truly out of his expectations. Osamu mindfully placed his gift in the glass trinket highest on the shelf amongst the ones he took from his mother, admiring for hours how the stamp stood magnificent with the delicate starlight. It was only when he grew up and reflected back on his childhood with his remarkably detailed memory, that he wondered whether Atsumu actually saw him cry.

***

In the kitchen remained the two adults. Mr. Miya opened the envelopes.

- Had'ya received the letter?

- Yes. - Mrs. Miya curtly replied, attending to her food only. - Itadakima-

- Then ya'd know why I'm talkin'. Bless the ole man (the boss), kind enough ta gimme a proper break. On the weekends we'll bring the kids to Osaka, haven't visited ma fer years.

Mrs. Miya stopped in her tracks.

- That won't be-

- Dear, ya will go. Ya ain't just stay 'here if ya husband can't be near ya. An' I cannot just move down 'ere and disappear from 'er life. - He tossed a thin pack of tickets onto the table.

The woman across the table scrutinized her tickets. Properly printed, "Miya Hiyori" carelessly written and less legible with an ink smudge. Her husband and sons' handwriting was managed more considerately.

She sighed, returning back to her food. A decision was made, and she damn knew that any effort to protest would be futile.

***

The excursion to Osaka was only conceivable with the appearance of the train connecting Port Island and inland Kobe, trailing to Osaka. Folks were in awe at its first appearance, yet with the capital not far eastward and Hyogo port awake at all times, the arrival of railways was inevitable. Nevertheless, its vitality and luxury was still celebrated: stations alive of eager travelers and prospering on the tickets, young children on grass mattresses by near the passing rails, marveling at the sight of the train to march past them and into the horizon, howling pridefully into the sun.In the dusk when Mrs. Miya had to find her rowdy sons, she would encounter them at the hill near the railway, watching for the evening train with unfazed interest, again and again.

When announced, Atsumu was ecstatic, anticipating with enthusiasm the day of departure, while Osamu would stay quiet and nod at the news. But who could say that he was indifferent to it? He had been longing to see Aunt Kotomi, and Tora and young Akane again. It has been years since the last time they met, and Osamu could barely envision Tora's face.

The day came.

Not a single cricket sang in this nighttime; all noises abstained from the boundless black blanket of sky. A few kerosene light bulbs spared the vast space of the station some meager light. A guest, disappeared behind their discolored trench coats, leaned onto the benches with only a small suitcase by their feet. Hiyori whispered at the anonymous man to watch his possessions; he perfunctorily growled a thank-you in a groggy voice, dragged his belongings alongside his body, and fell asleep again. A beggar slumped onto the wall, with a small purse full of coins and a half-eaten onigiri for dinner. His sun-beaten, scarred face felt stiff and uneasy in sleep even though his snores sounded peaceful and had begun to peter out into silence. Hiyori sneaked a 10-yen coin into his purse, and the man woke up, with an earnest smile concealing his rotten teeth, thanked her and wished her a good trip. Only a few guests wandered around in the station in this ungodly hour, and the lonely wind and spare trash hovering above the damp ground. Hiyori was left to look after the twins on a bench while Mr. Miya checked out the booths. She speculated that the "foreign" whiskeys sold there were not of any good, their quality unmatched with their prices. The twins were unconscious on her lap even though the express train had arrived.

The express train's howl tore off the silence, with its wheels screeching alongside the rails, sputtering sparks of fire. Its steamed puffed vigorously as ever, and despite such noise, the twins could only be woken up with a light spank to their knees.

Couches, coated in cheap wool whose threads have loosened and could only fit at most two, merged into an endless line of chairs with scattered guests. Atsumu grabbed a seat beside his father, eager to hear more tales of his recent visits. Mr. Miya rambled on, indulging in his storytelling too, ridden in hyperboles of the sea - his favorite place to be.

The train perpetuated on its rails and with an incessant rhythm of bumping each passenger against their seat. Osamu woke up when the conductor announced the next station: Osaka. He was greeted with the dawning scenery, and thought that he could trade some hours of his sleep admiring it and reveling in the still comfort of twilight. When the train fully stopped, either he or the conductor could wake his family up. He thought, as he moved closer to the window and lifted up the curtains.

Osamu watched the sun climbing on to the dimming stars, reviving the sky with its golden threads. In every corner of the vista where gold weaved with black and reached higher for the stars, all the hues in between mingled together, a tapestry of colors ready to breathe into Earth and its people a new life. That moment when all the noises stopped, the tapestry itself stood as it was a venerable, mellow giant cradling the world since its conception. In those few minutes of twilight, time humbly resigned itself, the dawn became the stage and its artist, and he was its sole audience. He wondered if he could forget this moment, the first time he witnessed the crack of tomorrow and the solemn craft of nature at its peak. Why did his dad not wake him up to watch the sunrise at the sea more often? For the first time, Miya Osamu had watched the sun rise. The trajectory of the train is now forgotten - the train could go where it wanted to go, but the sight of dawn would stand eternal before it, never to be squashed down by the ignorance of people and the unyielding hands of time.

Five rigorous days having to fall asleep on the itchy and moist woolen chairs, Osamu let out a breath of relief upon reaching its end. A hand tried to tug him back as he stepped onto the wooden platform. Osamu stopped, even though he heard his father calling out at a distance.

- Sumimasen?

Behind the voice was a boy of his age, with every part of him an alienness no one he knew possessed. Of lean features crafted in a way so subtle and so exquisite around the chin, grace hidden in the structure of his face and the ivory color in his skin. Of the timber-shaded hair that did not rest on his nape, of those thin lips curving into a cheeky grin. He was dressed in an old shirt and brown overalls with shorts reaching to the knees. Every touch was cold as he clasped his hands around Osamu's arms, soft and slight like autumn breeze. Dapples of gold engraved in the emerald colors of his eyes, - a beautiful golden-green cloaked with a feeling of intrigue he could not describe. As though everything told him of a little promise, a little potential, that the boy wanted to meet him again and not here. So strange, the promise, the feeling Osamu longed to name and to uncover.

- You dropped this when you moved to the window. I saw it on your chair. - Osamu was still struggling to process what he said when the boy tossed him the bento box he forgot about. Just before Osamu could utter a thank-you word, the door closed and the train was on its rails again, the timber hair disappeared behind a sea of people.It howled still and prideful approaching the horizon, leaving him with new intrigue for the mysterious boy and an unsaid message:

"Where are you from?"