Chapter 3 : The Touch That Started It All

The room is quiet, filled with the soft light of late morning and the kind of anticipation you can feel in your bones. Papa kneels across the tatami mat, his arms open wide, his eyes shining with hope. Behind me, Mama steadies my tiny frame with both hands.

"Go on, Hideki," she whispers. "Walk to Papa."

I look at him — at that warm, familiar smile — and something inside me says try.

I lift one foot. It wobbles. My knees shake. But I take a step.

Then another.

And then... a third.

But before I can take a fourth, my balance gives out, and I plop down onto my padded bottom with a soft thud. For a second, I just sit there, blinking at the world. A little stunned.

Then I hear it — laughter, clapping, cheers.

"He walked! Hideki, you WALKED!"

Papa's already scooping me into his arms, spinning me gently. Mama is laughing with happy tears in her eyes, her phone still recording. She says this video will be a treasure — something we'll keep forever.

I don't know what all the fuss is about... but I feel it.

I feel their joy.

I feel their pride.

And I feel something else inside me, something new — like wings spreading just beneath the skin.

Today, I walked.

It's a warm spring morning in our quiet Tokyo neighborhood. Outside, the air smells sweet, and cherry blossom petals drift lazily through the breeze, catching the sunlight like tiny pink feathers.

I toddle beside Mama and Papa on the soft pavement, my steps uneven but determined. My hands wave at everything — at leaves, at passing bicycles, at the clouds themselves.

And then, I see it.

Tama — the neighbor's gray tabby cat — lounging confidently near the wooden gate, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking lazily. To me, she looks like a majestic beast. Untouchable. Mysterious. Magical.

"Kyaa!" I squeal, pointing with excitement.

Our eyes meet. For a moment, it's just me and her.

And then she bolts.

Without thinking, I chase.

My legs wobble, my arms flail, but I'm moving. I bounce forward with wild determination. Papa calls out behind me, laughing. Mama's voice is close too — gentle, but ready to catch me if I fall.

I chase Tama past the gravel path, almost catching her — but with perfect feline grace, she slips under a low garden bench and vanishes.

I stumble forward and land on my hands.

There's a moment of silence...

And then I burst into giggles, clapping like I've just conquered the world.

Papa lifts me up high in the air. "We've got an explorer on our hands," he says, beaming.

Mama kisses my cheek and brushes a petal from my hair.

The wind carries another flurry of blossoms around us.

And as I rest in their arms, breathless and smiling, I feel it again:

That the world is big and full of wonder.

And that every step — every fall, every chase, every giggle —

is another note in the growing song of my heart.

The evening air in Tokyo is cool and still. The window near my bed is cracked open just enough to let the world whisper in — the gentle rattle of a distant train, the soft chirp of a cricket, the faint ring of a bicycle bell somewhere down the street.

I'm tucked into my little futon, my plush shiba inu curled beneath my arm, its fur worn smooth from all the times I've held it close. The scent of freshly washed blankets and tatami fills the room, and I feel warm. Safe.

Mama sits beside me, her legs folded neatly under her, a picture book resting in her lap. I know this one. I love this one. The cover is bright, and the title makes me smile every time:

Peek-a-Boo.

She opens the first page and leans in close, her voice light and playful.

"Peek-a... BOO!"

I burst into a giggle, squealing with joy as she makes a funny face and gives my tummy the tiniest tickle. It's our game — the same one every night — but somehow, it never gets old. I know what's coming, but it still surprises me in the best way.

With each turn of the page, she reads the same familiar rhythm. Her voice becomes a melody, soft and steady. My eyes start to blink slower. My breathing follows the flow of her words.

"Peek-a... BOO!"

I laugh again, but it's quieter now, smaller. My body's growing heavy, sinking deeper into the comfort of my bed. The pictures blur gently, the words stretching like lullabies in the air.

I feel her hand brushing gently through my hair, moving in time with the turning pages. I don't understand every word she says, but I understand how they feel.

Like a warm bath for my heart.

The last page turns. Her voice lowers into a whisper.

"Oyasumi, Hideki..."

She leans down and kisses my forehead — a kiss I swear I can feel even in my dreams. My eyes drift closed, my breathing slows, and I slip quietly into sleep.

And even as I drift away, I carry her voice with me...

Like a song that promises:

I am loved.

I am safe.

I am home.

Sunday morning came with sunlight spilling softly across the floor, golden and quiet. The smell of warm rice and miso soup drifted from the kitchen, where Mama moved gracefully between chores — humming, always humming.

Papa sat at the piano, his back straight, his fingers dancing across the keys. Each note drifted through the air like petals in the wind, filling our small Tokyo home with warmth.

I sat on the tatami mat, clutching my plush shiba inu, watching them.

Mama sang along softly as she folded towels. Papa smiled without even turning, like the sound of her voice guided his hands. They were in sync — like two parts of the same song.

I felt something tug inside me. Like a little string pulling at my chest. So I stood up — still a little wobbly — and toddled across the room, one foot after another, until I reached Papa's lap.

He looked down and chuckled, still playing. "Hideki... are you curious about what Papa's playing, hmm?"

I nodded.

He scooted over a little and gently lifted me onto the bench beside him. The piano looked so big up close. Endless white rows, with mysterious black tabs poking up in between.

"This is called a piano," he said, his voice soft in my ear. "You can touch it."

I reached out, pointing at a white key with my small finger and pressed down—gently. Nothing happened.

Papa laughed a little. "Try a little harder, bud."

Then he took my hand in his — large and warm — and guided my finger down again, pressing firmly this time.

Ding.

A sound.

A real sound.

I gasped.

"That's it!" he said with a grin. "That's music."

He kept holding my hand, helping me press another key. Another note danced into the air.

"You know," he said, smiling over his shoulder, "Mama fell in love with Papa because I used to play this piano for her."

From the kitchen, Mama laughed. "Ahh, don't say it like that, honey!"