Chapter 4 : The Day I Found My Rhythm

The living room was bathed in golden morning light, the gentle beat of Papa's music dancing through the air like sunshine set to rhythm. Mama clapped along with a wide grin, her hands moving to the beat, while Papa tapped his foot, fingers dancing effortlessly across the piano keys.

And me?

I stood right beside Papa, my little feet bouncing on the tatami mat, my arms flailing without direction or purpose — only joy.

And then... I started to dance.

Not because I was told to. Not because I knew how. Just because I felt it.

I swayed from side to side, bent my knees, spun in a wobbly circle with a wild grin on my face. My plush Shiba Inu — my ever-faithful partner — was clutched tightly in my arms as I twirled with him like we were floating on stage.

Mama laughed and joined in, copying my silly wiggles. "Hideki's got moves!" she cheered.

Papa leaned back from the piano, beaming. "Look at him go!"

Their laughter and music surrounded me like a hug. I giggled so hard I almost fell over — and eventually, I did. I flopped onto the floor in a giggling heap, breathless and dizzy, but full.

The music faded gently into the background. My laughter quieted as I turned toward Mama, who had sat down near the low table, her hands resting softly in her lap. Her smile was calm now — the kind that warms you deeper than any song.

I stood again, unsteady but sure, and waddled over to her. My Shiba Inu still nestled under one arm.

Then I leaned in... and wrapped my arms around her.

My cheek pressed against her chest. Her scent—faintly of soap and something sweet—wrapped around me. I didn't say anything. I didn't need to.

Mama froze for just a second — surprised — and then melted completely. Her arms folded around me, warm and safe. She lowered her head until her chin rested gently on mine.

"Aww... Hideki..." she whispered. Her voice was quiet. Wobbly. "Thank you."

We stayed like that for a while — just breathing, just being.

No toys. No music. No words.

Just love.

Later that morning, we sat together for breakfast — Papa pouring warm miso soup, Mama breaking fluffy tamagoyaki into bite-sized pieces for me. The smell of rice filled the kitchen, the clink of chopsticks and soft laughter floating through the air.

It wasn't a holiday. It wasn't a special occasion.

But it felt sacred.

Because it was ours.

Because it was home.

We were sitting on the wooden floor around the low chabudai table, steam rising from warm bowls of miso soup and freshly cooked rice. The morning sunlight slanted in through the curtains, and the music had gone quiet — but inside me, the rhythm hadn't stopped.

I looked at the table in front of me... and then, almost without thinking, I lifted both hands — and slapped them down.

Thump! Thump!

I blinked. That felt good. So I did it again.

"Thump... tap... tap-tap... THUMP!"

I tilted my head, listening to the way the sound echoed through the wood. It wasn't just noise — it was sound that belonged to me. My hands moved with a kind of instinct I didn't fully understand:

Left... right... pause.

Fast. Slow.

I was making a pattern. A beat.

I was making music.

Papa paused mid-bite and smiled at me from across the table, chopsticks still in hand. "Whoa... is he drumming?"

Mama, sitting right beside me, leaned in with a playful grin. She picked up her spoon and gently tapped it against the side of her rice bowl.

Ting... ting... tap.

I looked at her, then back at the table — and smiled.

Now we had a rhythm. A real rhythm. Me, Mama, and the table. Our own little band, playing a song no one had written, but that somehow existed just for us.

I pounded the table again — not loudly, just enough to hear it sing back to me.

And in that moment, I realized something.

I could make music.

Not just hear it.

Not just feel it.

But create it.

A small, giddy laugh bubbled up from my chest as Mama clinked her spoon again and Papa joined in, tapping the table with his knuckles.

This was our concert. Our stage. Our song.

And for the very first time...

I was the one leading.

After our joyful breakfast, the laughter still lingering in the air like music, I padded softly across the tatami floor and found Papa just finishing up in the bathroom. He was drying his hands on a towel when I reached up and tugged at his sleeve.

He looked down, and I gazed up at him with all the hope in my chest.

"Papa...?" (point to garden)

My voice was small, but it carried everything I felt. Curiosity. Wonder. The need to see something alive.

Papa crouched down until his eyes met mine, warm and smiling. "You want to go out to the garden, Hideki?"

I nodded fast, already bouncing in place.

He took my hand in his — big and steady — and together we walked toward the sliding door that led to our small garden.

The moment the door opened, sunlight wrapped around us like a soft blanket. A breeze drifted through, carrying the scent of earth and leaves. The bamboo stalks swayed gently in the corner, and rows of potted vegetables lined the wooden deck like little green soldiers.

Right here, the world felt quiet... like it belonged only to us.

Papa knelt beside one of the plants and pointed. "Look, Hideki. That tomato — see how it's growing?"

I leaned in, eyes wide. A tiny green orb clung shyly to its stem. I reached out with careful fingers, brushing a leaf with the lightest touch.

And then — something tickled.

A tiny ladybug had wandered onto my hand, her red shell dotted with perfect black spots.

I gasped, too surprised to speak.

Papa laughed, just as amazed as I was. "That's your first garden visitor today."

I nodded slowly, watching the ladybug crawl across my small fingers like I was part of the garden too.

The sun shone warm on my face. My heart felt even warmer.

And right then — between the rustling leaves, the quiet hum of the city, and the small, soft steps of a ladybug —

I understood something.

Life sings too.

Even in the smallest things.

I turned toward Papa, who stood just a few steps away, watching me with that familiar, warm smile. I stretched my arms high into the air, my little fingers reaching for the sky as I looked up at him with all the excitement I could carry.

"Up! Papa!"

My voice rang out clearly — not babble, not a guess — but something sure and full of want.

He chuckled, setting down his cup without hesitation.

"Oh, you want to fly like a ladybug, Hideki?"

Before I could answer, his strong arms wrapped around me, and up I went — lifted high above his head. My feet dangled in the air, and the world stretched out beneath me.

"Wheeeeee!"

I squealed with joy, my arms outstretched like wings. The breeze brushed against my face as he swayed me side to side, soaring through an imaginary sky above Tokyo.

Behind us, Mama watched, a gentle smile on her face. Her hands hovered near, always ready — but I wasn't scared.

I was flying.

Papa held me safe, steady, strong.

I laughed louder than ever before, because in that moment, I truly believed I could soar. To the sky, above the trees, above everything.

And wrapped inside that joy was something deeper — a trust so full, so complete, that I didn't even need to think about it.

I was in Papa's arms.

And that meant I was exactly where I belonged.

The morning light painted soft gold across the wooden deck of our rooftop garden. A gentle breeze rustled the bamboo leaves, and the air smelled like sun-warmed earth and tomatoes. I stood near the edge, watching tiny shadows dance on the floor.

That's when I saw her.

Tama-chan — the neighbor's sleek gray tabby — sitting just beyond the flower pots, her tail curled like a question mark.

My heart skipped.

I took a careful step forward, then another.

"Tama-chan..." I called softly. "Tama-chan... ohayou."

She blinked lazily at me — then, to my delight, stood up and padded over. Her soft fur brushed against my bare leg like a whisper. I giggled and reached out, slowly, carefully, to pet her.

But before my fingers could find her fur — whoosh — she darted away with a swish of her tail, vanishing between two planters.

I stood there, frozen for a second, a little stunned.

Then I heard Papa laughing from behind. "Looks like she made you work for that one, bud!"

I turned and bolted toward Mama, my plush Shiba still clutched in one arm.

"Mama!" I gasped. "Bug... red... tiny... fly... Hideki... fly too!"

Her eyes lit up as she crouched to meet me, brushing a bit of dirt from my cheek.

"A ladybug?" she asked softly.

I nodded, breathless, eyes wide. The image was still clear in my mind — the tiny red wings, the black dots, the way it floated up into the sky like magic.

"I fly too, Mama," I whispered, raising my arms like I had earlier in Papa's arms.

She smiled, pulling me into a hug. "Someday, my little ladybug. Someday, you will."

And in my heart — wild with wonder, filled with tiny joys and fleeting cats and flying dreams — I already had.

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