The Old Quarter, the sole survivor of ancient Oshima after the tsunami that devastated the city, still stood strong with its worn concrete buildings, winding alleys, and a population of laborers, the elderly, and the forgotten. It was there, on the third floor of a building renovated by the residents themselves, that five friends shared more than a roof: they shared an idea, a future.
The building belonged to Mr. Daiko, owner of the Aoi Wave nightclub and an influential figure in the local underworld. He rented the entire third floor to Kazuki, Jin, Oliver, Hiroito, and Daisuke, in exchange for an informal agreement: the group would look after his rooftop storage and make occasional deliveries for the Aoi Wave. Over time, they completely renovated the third floor, unifying the two original apartments into a single, spacious area with five bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large living room, and an integrated kitchen. The building had two large apartments per floor, each with two bedrooms, and a ground floor consisting of a spacious garage and a storage room with an exit to the side alley. The third floor, remodeled by the group, was their home, their base, and the heart of Kibo Delivery.
Each room reflected its owner's personality. Kazuki occupied the most functional room, with maps plastered on the wall and makeshift tools on raw wooden shelves; he was the type of guy who needed everything structured to avoid falling apart inside. Jin, on the other hand, lived in a perpetual carnival: stuffed animals, funny posters, and clothes strewn everywhere. His room seemed to scream what he didn't say aloud, that mess was safer than silence. Oliver's books, organized by author, theme, and publication year, created a silent wall around his glass desk. On it, a volume of Nietzsche rested with a leather bookmark, open to a highlighted page. The floor seemed never to have been trodden upon. The outside world existed, but only entered with formal authorization. Hiroito slept in a dark, spacious room, with a hammock in the corner and stacks of packaged food piled with military precision. He said it was just laziness, but there was a certain paranoia there, a fear that the world could stop spinning at any moment. Daisuke preferred simplicity: a low bed, disassembled drum kit, photos of his siblings on the wall. He was the only one who didn't need to hide anything, or perhaps the only one who didn't know what he was still hiding.
It wasn't just the building's concrete they had renovated; it was the bond they had built. Those walls spoke not of style, but of shared survival. Because none of them chose to come to Oshima, but all of them chose to stay. Jin, the noisy neighbor who became a brother. Hiroito, the fishing and silent companion. Oliver, the reserved bookstore visitor, who became an accomplice in late-night hours and schemes. And Daisuke... the boy who thought he was too small to play with them — until they understood that sometimes, all someone needs is a helping hand.
Kibo Delivery was born that way: improvised, chaotic, but inevitable. The main living room was a mix of functionality and organized chaos: a large, worn but extremely comfortable sofa, two armchairs that looked like they'd been rescued from a luxury thrift store, and several cushions scattered on the floor over a faded, extensive rug. The dark wooden floor, already worn by time, creaked with every step, but gave the room a rustic charm. The television, a convergence point on video game nights, was attached to a reclaimed wood panel that dominated the central wall. Each of them had their fixed spot there, almost like an unstated ritual: Kazuki sprawled on the corner of the sofa, Oliver always occupied the most upright armchair, Hiroito threw himself directly onto the floor cushions, Jin kept changing positions, and Daisuke chose wherever he could be in silence. The open-plan kitchen, right next door, featured wooden countertops with high stools, misaligned but well-stocked cabinets, and a large table with an electric Yakiniku grill in the center, a gift from Daiko, rarely used in the morning but the hub of evening meals. Despite this, most meals happened in the living room, with plates on laps, disorderly laughter, and remote control disputes during breakfast or dinner.
On that gloomy Friday morning, Kazuki was the first to wake up. With his disheveled black hair falling over his eyes and his dark jacket still tossed on the sofa, he carried the image of someone in constant readiness, as if disorder was just another commitment of the day. Unlike other days, he woke with a tight chest, not from the coffee that hadn't been made yet, but from accumulated anxiety. The band's show was scheduled for Saturday, but something had changed.... The previous night, Thursday, a revelation dropped like a bomb in the midst of their usual mess.
— "Friday?!" Kazuki froze before the crooked poster on the bathroom door. — "You put FRIDAY, Jin?!"
— "Surprise!" said Jin, with a nervous laugh. — "I got the days mixed up."
The tension in the apartment was almost palpable. No one said anything else; each reacted in their own way: Kazuki spent the night redoing the event's logistics, Daisuke barely slept, Oliver locked himself in his room reviewing lighting schemes, and Hiroito decided, as always, to just do what was necessary, without drama. Jin? Well, he spent the rest of the night trying to redeem himself by offering rice balls that he himself burned.
After a chaotic night, the morning arrived heavy. Kazuki opened the window as if he needed to confirm that the world still existed. The timid sun still struggled to overcome the fog. The view was of the alley where the old man known as Mr. Guru lived, a nickname, as no one knew his real name. Some said he had been the caretaker of the old Palace 100/4, others swore he was the true owner, but the truth had been lost to time. Mr. Guru, sitting in his small improvised garden among potted plants and benches made of crates, waved with a cup in his hand.
"Coffee?" he asked.
Kazuki replied with a wry smile, the kind that forms more in the eyes than on the lips. — "Make it for six, master. Chaos is coming down in a block." He opened the hallway door and began waking the group. First, he kicked Jin's door.
"Get up, clown, the world isn't going to end while you sleep... I think."
Jin tumbled out of bed like a rag doll, wrapped in his blanket as if he'd lost a fight against himself. — "My God, am I dead? Is this hell or high school?"
Kazuki, from the hallway, mercilessly: — "If it's high school, it's pretty consistent: you're in your underwear, late, and people are still looking at you."
Jin grumbled, tangling his legs further: — "Great. First class: group secondhand embarrassment. Am I already failing?"
Hiroito emerged from his room silently, eyes narrowed and an expression that said "only call me if there's food". Oliver was folding his sheet with symmetrical creases, each gesture measured like a ritual. Seeing Daisuke pass by with only a towel over his shoulder, he frowned without taking his eyes off the fabric.
— "Nietzsche said art needs form. You, clearly, ignore the frame."
Daisuke arched an eyebrow, unconcerned. — "Art should be appreciated, not framed."
— "As long as it doesn't force me to face the gallery first thing in the morning," Oliver retorted, snapping the sheet straight with a crisp sound.
Kazuki laughed loudly: "What a fine baggage you carry, Daisuke... too bad the packaging is disappointing."
Hiroito, heading to the kitchen — "Wow... have you seen a doctor for that?"
Daisuke, without losing his composure, raised an eyebrow and replied theatrically: "Art should be appreciated, not hidden. Appreciate it... but preferably in silence."
At that moment, Jin stumbled out of his room, tripping over his own pants, which were still taped together, and his shirt on inside out.
— "Appreciate? That? I'd rather lose my sight."
Another day began in that disorganized house they called home, with laughter, teasing, and a lot of chaos. The kitchen quickly became a flurry of activity. Oliver organized the dishes and cleaned the counter. Daisuke opened the cabinets and began assembling a tray with cutlery and jam jars. Hiroito took eggs, bread, and butter from the refrigerator, separating everything with the precision of someone who thinks with his stomach. Jin, still yawning, appeared with the mugs in his hands. "Six mugs ready — no coffee, just the cups themselves. Our master of the alley is already taking care of that downstairs."
— "Imagine life without Guru's advice," said Kazuki, biting into a bread roll with a skeptical look.
— "Chaos." replied Daisuke, with the deep voice of someone who doesn't exaggerate — even when he does. — "Just without charm."
Oliver, as he arranged the cutlery in a straight line: — "We'd be extinct. As Schopenhauer said: without practical wisdom, life dissolves into digestive pains."
— "Or instant coffee," muttered Hiroito, with the same seriousness as someone talking about war.
While the food was being prepared, the group exchanged playful jabs as if exchanging affection: — Kazuki: "Jin, this bread tastes weird."
— Jin: "It's the same you eat every day, except today I didn't spit."
— Hiroito: "Ah, so that's what's missing... the special touch."
With their mugs and some bread, they all went downstairs together. The elevator, as always, displayed the "under maintenance" sign — no one remembered who put it there. On the ground floor, they crossed the corridor to the side alley, where Mr. Guru awaited them with the table set. Short, thin, with disheveled white hair and skin marked by time and sun, he looked more like a guardian from another century than an ordinary neighbor. His improvised room, the building's old storage, was tidier than Jin's: a comfortable bed, a small refrigerator, bookshelves, a sofa, and a wooden table under a floral blanket. Beside it, a green corner full of ferns, bamboo, and paper lanterns.
They sat with him, handed over the mugs and snacks. "Here you go, master of the neighborhood's secrets," said Jin, bowing. "Bring wisdom... or at least coffee."
— "Sit down," he said, with the hoarse voice of someone who had seen too many days. "Life doesn't wait. But coffee... coffee respects the latecomers. Especially if they bring bread."
Jin sat on the nearest bench. — "That's almost a haiku. Have you ever thought of publishing morning wisdom?"
— "I did. But everyone who reads it ends up coming back... and I like the silence."
Jin served the mugs as if performing a sacred tea ceremony. — "Today we need double wisdom. Or triple, depending on Kazuki."
Mr. Guru raised an eyebrow with the air of someone who sees more than he says. — "So it's one of those days when the universe stumbles... and calls it destiny."
— "Ah, then we're in good hands," said Kazuki, picking up his mug. "Chaos is our specialty."
Daisuke, normally reserved, laughed. — "I like that. It fits in a song."
The old man looked at them with tired but firm eyes. — "The building is old. You are young. But what sustains both is the same: will. If you want it, today's sound will echo farther than any poorly printed announcement."
"I remember when you barely reached the height of a bicycle, running in this alley as if the world would end in a game of tag... Now look at yourselves. The building has changed. You have changed. But the stubbornness is the same."
Kazuki twirled the mug between his fingers, his eyes fixed on Guru's garden. Butterflies danced among the ferns as if nothing in the world had urgency. For an instant, the sound of chaos upstairs seemed... smaller. They ate together, as always — no toasts, no speeches, just the sound of mugs clinking and the warmth of shared food. They weren't blood family, but they carried something more resilient than a surname: the kind of bond that forms between those who survive together. Jin smeared jam on his bread, Hiroito stole a piece without asking, Oliver adjusted the cutlery that no one would have noticed was crooked. And Daisuke, silent, served the others before serving himself. Kazuki watched them for a moment, saying nothing. That was home. He scanned each face around the table. It was like looking at old photos projected into the present — Jin covered in mud fighting with older neighborhood kids, Oliver hidden among philosophy shelves, Hiroito staring at the sky lying on the playground, Daisuke sharing the last piece of bread without saying a word. Everything was still there, disguised beneath sparse beards and adult silences. Adults a bit flawed, but whole in the way life allowed. They didn't have the same origins, but they had the same destiny: to stay together, no matter the cost.
Kazuki then cleared his throat. "I want to talk about something serious." Everyone looked. The tone had changed. — "Mr. Matsuda is retiring. He's selling the van. And along with it, he wants to transfer all his clients, mini-marts, restaurants... everyone in the neighborhood. It's our chance to grow."
Oliver crossed his arms. "Do we have money for that?"
"Mr. Daiko offered to cover part, but it will increase the Aoi Wave deliveries, and they'll have priority."
Daisuke reflected. "Precise routes. If this is true, it doubles the flow."
Jin whistled. "Just tell me we're not using pigeons again."
Hiroito chewed slowly. "Hmm... deliveries for restaurants? We might even get some discounts on meals."
Mr. Guru, calm as ever, looked at them over his cup. "Ideas are like seeds... sometimes they sprout, sometimes they rot. But they always show where they came from."
Oliver merely arched an eyebrow and pointed at Kazuki with a contained smile. — "Some ideas sprout. Others... poison the soil."
Jin let out a muffled laugh, his body already leaning forward as if he knew nonsense was coming: — "The scooter descent. The flying pizza. Me screaming 'brake' like a Jedi."
Daisuke paused his coffee halfway to his mouth, his lips pressed together trying to suppress a laugh. — "That scene still lives in my head. The box spinning, the cheese dripping... it looked like performance art by a delivery guy in crisis."
Jin threw his head back, laughing loudly: — "I rolled with it! The scooter turned into a spaceship and I was the package."
Hiroito, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, murmured with the calm of someone watching the world fall apart: — "You were wearing headphones."
Jin blinked, theatrically: — "Motivational playlist. It was at its climax."
Daisuke raised an eyebrow, still smiling with his eyes: — "Worse was Kazuki's time, with the ropes between buildings. He thought he'd glide like a movie stuntman."
Kazuki clicked his tongue, as if tired of being right ahead of time: — "It was a mathematically plausible plan. Gravity was just arrogant."
Oliver adjusted his shirt cuffs with surgical precision, without lifting his eyes: — "Only three things were missing: technical knowledge, adequate equipment, and self-preservation instinct."
Jin raised his mug with false solemnity: — "Let's toast to the art of failing with style."
Hiroito awkwardly finished: "The fire department had to rescue us."
Kazuki raised his mug. "Okay, okay. To err is human. But to err with style is art."
"At least you're a prolific artist," Oliver commented, smiling wryly.
"I've seen many young people fail and many reborn from their own ideas," said Mr. Guru, his gaze lost in his plants and the butterflies there.
After coffee, they walked to the garage. There, covered by a worn tarp, was Mr. Matsuda's delivery van. A boxy, faded yellow model, with the visible logo from when it was "Matsuda Express".
"Does it work?" Hiroito asked.
"It works and carries weight like no other," Kazuki replied. "It's old, but it's a warrior."
The group exchanged glances. Amidst the jabs and jokes, a silent decision was being made. Oliver then suggested that he and Daisuke go to the Aoi Wave nightclub to talk to Mr. Daiko about the promised help for buying the van, and perhaps convince him to finance the vehicle's new wrapping. "As different as they were, Oliver's perfectionism, Hiroito's introspection, Jin's lightness, Daisuke's steadfastness, Kazuki's rebelliousness, all carried similar scars. None of them chose how they arrived in the city, but all chose to stay together. And now, as always, they would bet everything on a crazy plan, because that's what brothers did."
— "Better to sort this out while the others organize the deliveries," said Oliver, adjusting his shirt collar.
— "You just want to escape the heavy lifting," replied Kazuki, already separating packages.
Oliver shrugged and went to the garage with Daisuke. They took one of Kibo Delivery's electric scooters, Oliver sitting on the back and Daisuke taking control.
— "If you crash into anything, you're paying for the new wrapping," said Oliver, holding on tight.
— "Relax. I only crash when I'm sure it'll be epic," replied Daisuke with a wry smile, accelerating towards Aoi Wave.
As the two headed towards the nightclub, Jin, Kazuki, and Hiroito split up for the day. Kibo Delivery had four electric scooters, all branded with the company's stylized logo. Hiroito would take one and make deliveries in the commercial center. Kazuki would use another for deliveries in the middle-class urban area, where his mother and Jin's mother lived. Jin, for his part, chose his classic: the electric skateboard.
— "Who needs shock absorbers when you have strong bones?" said Jin, already heading downstairs with his backpack.
While the others spread out on their routes, Kazuki took the scooter and headed for the residential neighborhood of Oshima's rebuilt area. He would stop at his mother's bookstore first, not just because she was a Kibo client, but because certain family conversations delayed things more than any delivery. Kazuki parked the scooter in front of his mother's small bookstore. As he opened the door, he smelled paper and fresh coffee. Akane Kojima appeared from behind the bookstore counter. Slender, with long hair pulled back in a makeshift bun, she had the firm gaze of someone who had read all possible endings, yet still believed in new beginnings.
— "Well, look who it is, the heir to culture has arrived," she said, without looking up. "She still had that look that saw beyond the facade. Growing up with Akane was like living under an unforgiving editor; every mistake, every silence, she noticed."
— "Just here to drop off a package. I promise not to elevate the intellectual level of the place."
Ryoko appeared from the back with her cell phone in hand. With her dark hair loose, sharp face, and a mischievous glint in her eyes, she seemed determined to win any argument that hadn't even started yet.
— "Wow, Kibo Delivery even delivers to relatives now? How pathetic." "Ryoko, on the other hand, never changed her tone, always ready for a verbal duel, whether with the world or with him. It was annoying. And comforting."
— "It's family support, you ungrateful wretch."
Kenjiro came with a sandwich, still in his school uniform. Smaller and thinner than Kazuki, he had a lightness in his gestures and a smile that lit up the room, the opposite of his brother, in almost everything.
— "Want some, onii-san? I made a tofu one with ginger sauce."
Kazuki took the snack and ruffled his younger brother's hair. — "You're going to turn me into a gourmet."
Akane crossed her arms and observed her son. — "You have dark circles. Did you sleep late?"
— "Deliveries, spreadsheets... and the irony club running late into the night."
— "And with Ayumi? Have you decided whether to leave things in the past or relive the tragedy?"
Kazuki frowned. — "Mom..."
— "I'm romantic, but practical. If she shows up, say what needs to be said, before it becomes just another unfinished chapter."
Kazuki hesitated. — "I heard she's back in town. Maybe she'll show up at the show."
— "If Ayumi's there... tell her I still have the bookmarks she used to draw and leave here when she visited. That girl had a quiet affection for this place."
Kazuki took the sandwich, but was slow to take the first step. In his pocket, his fingers squeezed the paper with the address of the next delivery, as if a snack and a memory could weigh the same. As he left, he looked back only once. Just to see if she was still there. She wasn't. But the smell of coffee with ginger still lingered. After leaving the bookstore, Kazuki continued with lighter steps than he expected. The streets of the neighborhood seemed more intimate than ever, and he hardly knew that someone was watching him from afar.
Next, he stopped at Aiko's mini-mart, Jin's mother. She greeted him with her usual smile.
— "If it isn't the most handsome delivery guy in the city. Want some tea?"
— "Only if it comes with built-in maternal advice."
— "It always does. Is Jin really going to help with the show today or will he become a side attraction again?"
— "I think he's going to try to sell drinks and dance badly."
— "Then it's a normal day. Take this sweet bread for him later. And bring him here. He hasn't shown up in a while."
Kazuki smiled, taking the package. — "Will do. He'll show up. Even if he's dragged."
She laughed. — "And if Ayumi's there... tell her I still keep the bookmarks she gave me. She was a kind girl."
Kazuki merely nodded. The smell of sweet bread seemed warmer than the day, as if the neighborhood had memories stuck to the sidewalk. He didn't know why, but his steps felt heavier than the bag.
Soon after, he crossed paths with Ayumi walking calmly along the bike path, as if she was just rediscovering the neighborhood.
— "Finally found you walking around," she said, with a slight smile.
— "I thought you'd pretend not to see me. I already passed by the bookstore and the mini-mart, you know?"
Kazuki felt his step falter, as if for a second he forgot what he was doing there. She wore a light jacket and dark jeans, her hair now dyed sky blue, so different, yet so much like her, swayed in the wind, subtly mocking the passage of time. He remembered how she used to wear it tied back with a pencil, during study days at the bookstore. Now, loose, it seemed to say that she too had changed. But the smile... that was still the same. And his heart recognized it before his mind caught up.
Kazuki laughed. — "So they've already played public relations. And you, just visiting or staying for good?"
Her almond-shaped, dark eyes held that curious and calm glint, as if she saw more than she said.
— "Visiting. I still don't know if I'll stay longer. But... I heard there's a show tonight."
— "They say it's a decent band, with a grumpy drummer and a vocalist who sings better than she speaks."
Kazuki gave a discreet smile. — "Grumpy? He only becomes human after ten. Before that, it's almost a crime to wake the guy up."
Ayumi laughed, and for a brief moment, the memory of coffees under the tree and nights at the Palace shimmered in her eyes.
— "And an organizer who still thinks he understands sound, even without playing anything."
Kazuki narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. — "He's more handsome than talented, so they say."
— "They say?" She raised an eyebrow. "Or are you spreading it yourself?"
She gave a light laugh. Kazuki hesitated for an instant, like someone still holding questions that didn't fit there.
— "Are you really going?"
— "Of course. I need to see if the neighborhood still knows how to make some noise."
— "Then... I'll see you there. Oh, and I like your hair color. Blue suits you."
She smiled, tucking a strand behind her ear. — "Thanks. I thought it was time for a change."
Kazuki looked away, but not enough. His eyes said what his mouth would never dare.
— "You've changed on the outside... but you still have that way of looking, as if you hear even what we try to swallow."
Ayumi tilted her head, her smile slowly appearing, as if she understood, and accepted.
— "And even so, I still like to listen. Especially when you stumble... on what you feel and pretend not to feel."
He frowned slightly, almost smiling. — "I don't stumble much."
She took a step forward, unhurriedly: — "That's why it still surprises me when it happens."
There was a brief, but dense silence. As if too many words would dissolve what was suspended. They looked at each other again. And this time, no disguise tried to prevent it. She adjusted a blue strand behind her ear. He breathed as if holding a response he had never said.
— "See you, Kazuki."
— "See you, Ayumi."
Kazuki stood there, watching Ayumi walk away. The sky blue of her hair still shimmered even under the cloudy sky, swaying like a memory that refused to become the past. The faint scent of jasmine tea lingered in the air, persistent, as if the wind also didn't know if it was time to let her go. He still knew that way of walking, determined, yet tender. And even after so much noise between them, it was in that silence that he still wanted to remain.
The neighborhood continued to breathe as always: the smell of fresh bread, the creak of gates, the sound of tires on stones. But for Kazuki, something had changed. Because sometimes, the loudest noise doesn't come from the stage. It comes from a name that reappears uncalled. Perhaps the neighborhood wasn't the only place trying to remember who it was. And just perhaps, that night held a sound no one knew they could still play.