Hana cried. He didn’t. Instead, he ordered two more whiskies, and they drank to Akemi’s future.

Kaito thought about his father, a retired civil servant who spoke of “harmony” the way others spoke of oxygen. He thought about the gay bars of the 1980s, before his time, where men wore masks or came only through back entrances. He thought about the young YouTubers now, out and proud in Shibuya, and how their courage felt like a country he could never emigrate to.

“And say what? ‘I prefer men, Tanaka-san. Also, I sometimes go to Violet and dance until 4 a.m.’? I’d be transferred to the Akita branch within a month.” He drained his glass. “My father would hear about it. He’d call it haji —shame. The family line ends with me.”

“Because you’re the kindest man I know. And because I want her to grow up knowing that love comes in shapes that don’t fit into forms.” She smiled, eyes wet. “You’ll teach her that it’s okay to be who you are. Even if you can’t teach it to yourself.”

His head snapped up. “What?”