novelraw Chapter 206: The Happy Mizukami Sho! The Midnight Diner Frenzy Effect!
Chapter 206: The Happy Mizukami Sho! The Midnight Diner Frenzy Effect!
"At the end of the day, our pens are just too soft — they can't outmuscle capital's thighs." Ono crushed his barely-touched oolong tea bottle until it creaked in protest. His young, sharp-featured face was a portrait of the idealist's particular brand of fury — the kind that comes from getting sucker-punched by reality.
Kimura-senpai merely shook his head with a rueful smile. He started the car. The old Toyota Century gave a steady, slightly weary rumble — like a world-weary old man sighing into the deep night.
Inside the car, the oppressive silence born of dirty money clung like viscous fog, refusing to dissipate.
"That said, Kimura-senpai." It was Suzuki — the bespectacled, mild-mannered middle-aged critic — who first pierced the suffocating quiet.
He adjusted his glasses, curiosity glinting in his eyes. "What do you think TV Tokyo's odds are, letting Nohara Hiroshi do the live-action Midnight Diner? I'll admit the manga is a masterpiece, but between manga and live-action lies a bottomless dimensional wall. Even for someone like Nohara Hiroshi, crossing it can't be easy."
His words dropped like a stone into stagnant water, sending ripples cascading outward.
"Not easy? That's the understatement of the century!" Ono jumped in immediately. He seemed to have finally found an outlet for his homeless "professional spirit," his voice ringing with certainty. "This is hell-level difficulty! Let me tell you — the cardinal sin of manga-to-live-action adaptation is the 'stripping of interpretive rights'! Why was Midnight Diner able to reach god-tier status? Because it gave readers infinite room for imagination! When we read the manga, every one of us creates our own Owner in our heads — what his scar looks like, how he speaks, what his lard rice actually tastes like... These are secondary creations between reader and work! An intensely private experience, dripping with personal emotional projection!"
"But live-action? It takes a specific actor, a fixed set, and an inarguable presentation to tell you: THIS is what the Owner looks like! THIS is how lard rice tastes! It brutally shatters the unique, imagination-rich world that every reader has built in their heart! The feeling is like — imagine a pen pal you've secretly been in love with for years, suddenly appearing before you in a form you absolutely cannot accept! That disillusionment, that betrayed fury, is enough to instantly zero out all your prior affection!"
Ono's analysis was passionate and razor-sharp, every word a surgical scalpel precisely dissecting the most critical, most lethal pain point of the "manga-to-live-action" domain.
"Ono's right." Suzuki nodded. "In communication theory, this is called 'audience decoding conflict.' Manga provides an open text, while live-action provides a closed text. When the closed text severely deviates from the open decoding that's already formed in the audience's mind, it inevitably triggers intense resistance. This is the so-called 'original fan backlash.'""And don't forget," he added, his tone growing heavier, "Midnight Diner's core charm isn't just about the food. It's about that unique 'atmosphere' — finding profound meaning in the mundane. The special loneliness and warmth that belong only to the dead of night. The subtle, tacit understanding between people — close yet distant, wordless yet knowing... These are highly abstract qualities, extremely difficult to capture through a camera lens. Unlike action films where you can pile on special effects. Unlike romance where you can fill gaps with melodrama. It requires a director with extraordinarily deep insight into life and human nature. Nohara Hiroshi may be brilliant, but he's only twenty-three. Can he truly understand the loneliness of middle age — that loneliness steeped in resignation and compromise? I reserve judgment."
Silence reclaimed the car.
Between them, Ono and Suzuki had systematically mapped every minefield the Midnight Diner live-action might encounter.
Their professionalism and analytical rigor transformed the modest Toyota Century into a mobile, elite-atmosphere academic symposium.
Yet into this space of reason and caution, the hitherto-silent Kimura-senpai suddenly let out a quiet chuckle.
"You two..." He kept steady hands on the wheel, watching through the rearview mirror as his juniors blinked in mild surprise. His clouded eyes shone with veteran wisdom. "Everything you've said is correct. But you've both forgotten one thing — the most important thing."
"What?" Both asked in unison.
"You've forgotten who's at the helm." Kimura-senpai's lips curved with weighted meaning, his eyes brimming with near-blind faith in that young man. "It's Nohara Hiroshi."
"A monster who never plays by the rules."
He paused, tossing his empty oolong tea bottle into the storage compartment. His voice carried a veteran's resigned acceptance.
"Then again, even if he does stumble this time — even if the result is mediocre at best — it would still be a hundred times better than that Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree that Kirin Group made last year, wouldn't it?"
"Pfft—"
Ono couldn't contain a burst of laughter, dripping with undisguised scorn.
"Kimura-senpai! That's practically an insult to Department Manager Nohara! Comparing Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree — that garbage — to his work? That's like comparing a pile of dung to three-Michelin-star kaiseki cuisine!"
"Ha ha ha ha! Ono, that metaphor is vulgar as hell, but god is it accurate!" Suzuki roared with laughter, pushing up his glasses, eyes gleaming with malicious glee. "Let me tell you — when I went to the Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree premiere last year, I nearly fell asleep in the theater! What even was that thing?! The plot was so childish it belonged in a kindergarten play date. The dialogue was so cringeworthy you could claw out a three-bedroom apartment! Apart from Kamiki Shunsuke's face being somewhat watchable, it was absolutely worthless!"
"Worthless doesn't begin to cover it!" Ono's indignation mounted with every word. He even shook his fists. "They called that a chanbara film? It was a period costume idol drama in chanbara clothing! Every last 'samurai' had ruby lips and porcelain skin, dressed more extravagantly than a courtesan! The fight scenes were all slow-motion twirling and posing — more time striking attitudes than swinging swords! I wanted to jump through the screen and slap every one of them on behalf of every dishonored Sengoku warrior spirit!"
"And the most ridiculous part — they actually dared to release it in the same window as Department Manager Nohara's Seven Samurai!" Suzuki's face radiated pure schadenfreude. "The result? Seven Samurai finished with 8.4 billion yen at the box office — shattering every domestic Japanese film record! And Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree? A measly 800 million yen! Not even a rounding error! Absolutely humiliating!"
"800 million? That's generous!" Ono scoffed. "If it weren't for Kamiki Shunsuke's braindead fans desperately blocking and bulk-buying screenings, I doubt it would've even cracked 100 million! A disgrace to Japanese film history!"
"And that's exactly my point." Kimura-senpai summed up with a smile. "This time will be the same. Even if Nohara Hiroshi truly stumbles — even if his Midnight Diner flops on the critical front — at the very least, his work will have soul. It will have warmth. It will be worth discussing, worth contemplating. And that Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog? I could predict with my toes — it'll be exactly the same formula as Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree. A hollow, gorgeous product, assembled from star power and glossy packaging."
"One is a work of art — even a failed work of art. The other is a commodity — even a successful commodity. Between the two, don't we writers know which stands higher?"
His words landed like a final verdict, preemptively stamping a mocking period on this yet-to-begin ratings war.
"That said," Suzuki's face suddenly grew serious, "Tokyo City TV was just established. They'll want their first fire to burn bright. I've heard that besides Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog — their only original production — all their other prime-time shows are rebroadcast rights bought at premium prices from Kansai and Kyushu. It's obvious they've concentrated every production and promotional resource on this single drama. They've invested heavily in this battle. Not to be underestimated."
"True." Ono nodded, worry creeping across his face. "And I've heard their 'publicity fees' for the media are equally lavish. When we get home, we'll probably have to... swallow our consciences again and write flattering pieces we don't believe."
No sooner had Ono finished than Kimura-senpai pulled the comically thick envelope from his jacket.
He tossed it onto the dashboard. The dull thud struck every heart like a hammer blow.
"Real estate money — generous as always." He laughed with self-deprecation, world-weariness saturating every word.
"Sigh..." Suzuki exhaled heavily. He stared at the bulging envelope, a nameless exhaustion flickering through his calm eyes. "Let's go home and check with our colleagues first — see how they felt about the live-action Midnight Diner. At least then we'll know how to write something that doesn't offend our patrons while not completely selling our souls."
"What's there to figure out?" Ono laughed bitterly. He hurled the mangled oolong tea bottle into the garbage bag at his feet with the resignation of a man who'd given up. "Tomorrow, we'll follow their press release template and hype Kamiki Shunsuke to the heavens. 'Explosive acting!' 'Every glance tells a story!' 'Lost ten pounds for the role!' I could write three thousand words of that garbage with my eyes closed."
"Ha ha ha ha!" Suzuki couldn't help but laugh bitterly. "Kid, you're really developing this industry's 'professional caliber.'"
"Professional caliber?" Ono murmured, burying his face deep in his folded arms. His muffled voice carried a barely perceptible crack. "Keep this up, and I think my soul is about to be permanently bought out by this damned capital."
Deathly silence fell over the car once more.
Only the glittering, cold galaxy of countless city lights outside the windows watched in silence over these three tiny souls, struggling between ideals and reality.
After a long pause, Kimura-senpai started the car again.
"Let's go." His voice was soft, yet echoed in every ear like the heaviest of sighs.
"Home. Time to write."
The black Toyota Century, like a silent beetle, melted soundlessly into Tokyo's never-sleeping depths.
"Ding-ring-ring—"
A sudden pager vibration sliced through the suffocating stillness like a blade, tearing open a crack.
It was Ono. He fumbled the small black device from his pocket, its faint screen glow illuminating his still-defiant young face.
"It's... a message from Mikami — the editor! Wanting to get in touch!" He checked the number, his voice carrying the relief of a disaster survivor. "Mikami from Eiga Ningen! He must have finished watching Midnight Diner too!"
Before the words had fully left his mouth, Ono was already pulling over and dashing toward a still-lit public phone booth nearby.
"Hello! Mikami-san! It's me, Ono! Did you... did you watch it?! Midnight Diner!" The phone barely connected before Ono's pent-up excitement erupted like a volcano. "So?! How was it?! What did you think?!"
From the other end came Mikami's voice — equally charged with adrenaline, even trembling slightly. "How was it?! How the hell do you think it was?! I'm in the izakaya downstairs from my apartment right now! I bolted down here the second it ended! Let me tell you, Ono — all I want right now is an ice-cold draft beer, a plate of fresh-grilled chicken skewers, and to scream at the moon three times: NOHARA HIROSHI BANZAI!"
"Ha ha ha ha! Me too! That's exactly what I want!" Ono laughed uproariously, the sound brimming with the euphoria of finding a kindred spirit. "Where are you? I'm heading over right now! No — I'm bringing Kimura-senpai and Suzuki-senpai too! Tonight — we don't go home until we're drunk!"
"Great! I'm at Torikizoku in Shinjuku Sanchome! Hurry! I'll be waiting!"
Ono hung up and charged back to the car like a man possessed. Every shadow had vanished from his young face, replaced by the near-manic radiance of pure, uncut passion.
"Kimura-senpai! Suzuki-senpai! Let's go! Drinks! Mikami-san's waiting for us! He says he wants to celebrate Department Manager Nohara's new masterpiece together!"
...
Shinjuku Sanchome's nights carried less of Ginza's icy, keep-your-distance refinement and more of something warm and reachable — the everyday vitality of human life.
Torikizoku's warm orange glow spilled through half-open wooden sliding doors, painting the crooked red lanterns scrawled with "Yakitori" and "Draft Beer" in irresistible hues.
When Kimura and the others pushed through the door, Mikami had already secured a window booth and ordered a table full of drinking snacks.
Golden-crisp fried chicken pieces. Sizzling grilled chicken skewers. Bright-green, refreshing edamame. And seven or eight massive mugs of draft beer crowned with creamy foam.
Several of Mikami's friends sat nearby — fellow editors and critics from the industry.
Every one of them had watched the live-action Midnight Diner.
"Come, come! Sit down! Sit!" Mikami's face lit up the moment he saw them, his warmth more befitting a reunion of long-lost friends than a gathering of colleagues.
Ono, Kimura, and Suzuki took their seats.
After a brief round of pleasantries, the conversation naturally gravitated to one topic: Nohara Hiroshi's live-action Midnight Diner.
"I'm telling you — Kishimoto and I already rewatched the first episode three times!" Mikami raised his glass, his usually mild smile now replaced by barely contained excitement. "That opening theme! Absolutely godly! Just the simplest acoustic guitar and the most unpretentious voice, and it instantly melted me to the core! I honestly think that song alone deserves this year's Best TV Drama Soundtrack award!"
"The soundtrack's just the beginning!" Kishimoto, the editor beside him, raised his own glass and clinked it hard against Mikami's — the sharp ring like a battle drum. "How about that Owner! Everyone — where did this Mizukami Sho even come from?! I've searched every database in the entire Japanese entertainment industry and can't find a single piece of information about him from twenty years ago! It's like he was specifically born from a crack in the earth just for this drama!"
"Exactly!" Another editor joined in. "I originally assumed the live-action Owner would inevitably differ from the manga version in some ways. But I never imagined that he'd achieve a one-hundred-percent perfect recreation! No — I actually think he's even more real, even more magnetic than the manga Owner! That quality — silence wrapped in tenderness, cold features hiding untold stories — it's... alive!"
"That's the word! 'Alive'!" Mikami slapped his thigh. "The manga Owner is ultimately two-dimensional — something we have to fill in with our imagination. But the live-action Owner breathes. He thinks. When you order, he watches you with those eyes that seem to see through everything. When you're feeling low, he silently places a steaming bowl of lard rice before you. That feeling — being gently watched over, healed by a real, living person — is something you could never experience reading the manga ten thousand times! That's where live-action transcends manga!"
Meanwhile, as their tablemates exchanged these rapturous impressions, the newly arrived trio — Ono, Kimura, and Suzuki — could only exchange stunned glances.
They had attended Tokyo City TV's Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog premiere event.
They hadn't watched Nohara Hiroshi's Midnight Diner at all.
Now, watching their colleagues at the table chat with such feverish excitement, their hearts churned with complicated emotions.
"Is it really... that good?" Ono couldn't contain his doubt and asked aloud.
Then, with genuine regret: "We accepted Tokyo City TV's press junket invitation, so we attended their event. We watched Kamiki Shunsuke's Minamijima Afu and His Beloved Dog. We missed everything! We never got to see Nohara Hiroshi's Midnight Diner!"
"Mm." Kimura sighed beside him. "Hearing what you're all saying, it sounds like... Nohara Hiroshi's live-action Midnight Diner is genuinely spectacular?"
"So tell us — what is this drama actually like?!" Suzuki pressed.
Hearing their words, Mikami, Kishimoto, and the others couldn't help but let out amused, pitying chuckles.
Without mockery — but with looks of undisguised sympathy — they each offered their takes.
Every word was praise.
And finally, a senior veteran editor spoke up: "I honestly feel this drama has already transcended being merely a TV show."
He raised his glass for a measured sip, veteran wisdom twinkling in his clouded eyes.
"It's more like a virtual community — built by Nohara Hiroshi's own hands — for all of us lonely souls wandering through the city."
"In this community, we're no longer isolated atoms. We're the yakuza boss who loves octopus wieners. We're the failed singer chasing her dream through the midnight hours. We're those three older single women — complaining about men while desperately craving love. We are mirrors for each other, and comfort to each other."
"This sense of resonance, of belonging — that's what makes this drama most powerful, and most... terrifying."
The senior critic's words — precise as a final verdict — instantly elevated this newborn work to something approaching sociological significance.
"Brilliantly put, senpai!"
"Cheers!"
"To Department Manager Nohara!"
"To Midnight Diner!"
Seven or eight frosted beer mugs collided in midair with a satisfying clink, their crisp ring blending perfectly with the surrounding warmth of everyday human life.
This single exchange left the trio who hadn't watched Midnight Diner — Ono, Kimura, and Suzuki — thoroughly shell-shocked.
Regret and frustration burned through them.
Especially when they remembered the Tokyo City TV appearance fees still tucked inside their jackets — every face twisted with excruciating complexity. They had no idea what to write tomorrow.
After all, the situation was what it was.
If they wrote favorable reviews of Tokyo City TV's drama — they'd end up humiliated. Judging by their colleagues' fervor, Nohara Hiroshi's live-action Midnight Diner was clearly another Seven Samurai-tier masterwork.
But if they didn't write favorably — how would these critics who lived on appearance fees explain themselves to Tokyo City TV?
After all: bite the hand that feeds you, and your pen grows short.
Professional ethics were a serious business.
"Everyone, please — tell us in detail what Nohara Hiroshi's Midnight Diner is really like." Ono was the first to plead.
And so Mikami gave a thorough account.
By the time he finished, all three sat in stunned silence.
Then, suddenly, Ono's expression shifted — a near-religious fervor blazing to life on his young face.
"Everyone!" He shot to his feet, eyes shining with unshakable determination. "What's the point of sitting here just drinking?! Come on! I'm taking you somewhere amazing!"
"To the real 'Midnight Diner'!"
...
When the seven of them arrived by two taxis at that familiar-yet-strange little alley, the scene before them — rivaling New Year's Eve in Shibuya — stopped every last one of them dead in their tracks.
A sea of humanity, dense as fish stranded on a beach after the tide recedes, packed the already narrow alley until not a single person more could squeeze through.
The crowd flowed like ants, making a tireless pilgrimage toward that single point of amber light.
"Good god... this is insane!" Ono stammered, staring at the queue that stretched beyond sight. The bone-deep shock made him feel like he'd stumbled into some fantastical dream. "The first episode only just aired! How are there already this many people?!"
"You're telling me!" Mikami exclaimed, his usually mild smile now pure disbelief. "This is unprecedented!"
"Listen to what they're saying." Suzuki pushed up his glasses, gesturing for everyone to eavesdrop.
From the buzzing crowd, excited discussions surged like waves.
"Hey! How much longer until we get in?! I came all the way from Ota Ward just to eat a bowl of the Owner's handmade cat rice!" A college-age boy in a baseball jersey stood on tiptoe, craning his neck toward the front.
"Who knows! I heard that when they opened at nine tonight, there were already over a hundred people lined up!" His similarly dressed companion shrugged helplessly. "It's all Nohara Hiroshi's fault! He made this place look too irresistible! Every night owl in Tokyo has probably migrated here!"
"Not just Tokyo!" Further down the queue, a young woman in business attire was excitedly pointing her camera alongside an equally camera-wielding friend. "The Midnight Diner filming location! In person! Real! Alive! Wow! It's an absolute mob scene! Worse than queuing at Disneyland! The Owner himself is seriously gorgeous! So stylish! Exactly like on TV! Ahhh — I think I'm going to faint from happiness!"
"I think the most amazing thing is the atmosphere!" Her friend joined in, wide eyes glistening with emotion. "Look — even though there are this many people crammed in here, nobody's arguing, nobody's complaining. Everyone is just quietly standing in line, softly sharing their love for the show. It's like... like we're one big family."
"Yeah... yeah..."
That sentiment drew a chorus of agreement.
Mikami, Ono, Kimura, and the others stood silently at the crowd's fringe, watching this scene of astonishing warmth. Their brains — numbed by years of commercial dreck — froze solid in this moment.
Then several more taxis pulled up at the alley's entrance.
Doors flew open. A dozen more excited young people poured out like explorers who'd discovered a new continent, waving cameras and charging toward the queue.
"There it is! We found it! This is the place!"
"Quick! Get in line! I hear if we're too late, we won't get in!"
"Tomorrow's Saturday — no work! We're camping here all night! I absolutely have to eat the Owner's handmade octopus wieners!"
Within minutes, the tail of the queue had grown by thirty or forty people.
"Sigh..." Ono exhaled a long, defeated breath. He stared at the ever-lengthening queue — as boundless as a snake game — his young face a portrait of existential despair. "It's over. There's no way we're eating here tonight."
"So we don't eat." Mikami shrugged philosophically, shaking his head with a seasoned smile. "I'd say witnessing the birth of a cultural phenomenon with our own eyes is worth far more than a single meal."
"But..." Ono still looked unwilling to give up. "I still want to get inside! Just one look! Just to see what the real 'Midnight Diner' actually looks like!"
Before his words had fully faded, the wooden door deep in the alley — scorched by countless yearning gazes — creaked open a sliver.
A pretty girl with a ponytail, wearing a middle school uniform, poked her head out. Her face was slightly pale with fatigue, yet carried a composure and pride that belied her age.
"I'm terribly sorry, everyone!" The girl's voice rang clear and bright, like wind chimes cutting through the night, instantly silencing the alley's chatter. "The kitchen is completely out of ingredients! My father and mother can barely stand anymore! Tonight's service is officially over! Thank you all so much for your support!"
She bowed deeply to the ocean of humanity at the alley's mouth.
"Huh?!"
"They're done?!"
"No way! I've been waiting for two hours!"
"Please! Little sister! Can't we just come in for a beer?!"
A chorus of disappointed, reluctant groans erupted from the crowd.
Yet amid the noise, a young business woman suddenly called out to the uniformed girl.
"Little sister! You're the Owner's daughter, aren't you?! I'm a fan of your father! His performance in the drama was incredible! Could we... could we come in and take a photo with him?"
"Yeah! Can we take a photo?!"
"Your father is the best Owner in our hearts! We just want a picture!"
The crowd surged back to life, every eye blazing like a searchlight at the girl named Mizukami Sayuri.
The girl blinked in surprise, then a brilliant smile bloomed across her tired little face.
"I'm sorry, but my father doesn't like photos, and he doesn't like fame. I'll do the declining on his behalf — please don't disturb him!"
She straightened her small frame, bone-deep pride radiating from her. "Everyone, please enjoy the father you see on TV! Our place is just an ordinary midnight diner that operates from nine PM to four AM!"
She paused, pulling the door tighter, her voice softening with a plea. "And my father is truly exhausted. I hope everyone can understand!"
She bowed again.
The crowd, seeing this, finally dispersed.
...
In the kitchen, the last fading echoes of the night's commotion ebbed away like a retreating tide.
Mizukami Sho slumped against the counter, his arms aching so badly he could barely raise them.
He watched his wife, Mizukami Misaki, feebly placing the last cleaned plate back in the cabinet. Her usually gentle face was a mask of pure exhaustion.
"My back... I'm pretty sure it doesn't belong to me anymore." Misaki rubbed her lower back, her voice carrying a faint note of spousal whining. "I swear I've never washed this many dishes in my entire life!"
"You worked so hard, Misaki." Mizukami Sho's apologetic smile was genuine as he stepped forward to gently massage her shoulders.
"Saying 'you worked hard' doesn't fix my back!" Misaki shot him an exasperated glare — but sweetness lurked unmistakably behind it.
She turned to study the scar on her husband's face — particularly magnetic under the warm amber light — and those eyes that seemed to see through everything. Despite herself, she couldn't help muttering, half-amused and half-annoyed:
"Especially earlier! Did you not notice?! Those girls in the pink sweaters at the counter! Their eyes looked like they wanted to eat you alive! 'Owner, you're so handsome!' 'Owner, you're so gentle!' — calling out one after another until I had goosebumps everywhere!"
She mimicked their voices — high-pitched, syrupy — with such adorable jealousy that Mizukami Sho couldn't help but laugh out loud.
"Alright, alright, don't be upset." He chuckled, shaking his head, pulling his wife gently into his arms. "In my heart, you're the most beautiful."
"Hmph. Sweet talker." Misaki's protest was purely verbal as she nestled her head against his broad, warm chest.
"But speaking of which—" She suddenly remembered something and looked up, worry filling her gentle eyes. "You've been working all day. Do you have to go to the production set tomorrow? Can your body handle it?"
"Don't worry — even if I go, it'll be easy." Mizukami Sho shook his head with a smile.
"Easy? Why easy?" Misaki asked, puzzled.
"Because..." A smile of resignation and deep admiration crossed Mizukami Sho's face. "Department Manager Nohara Hiroshi is simply too extraordinary. Going there just means following his instructions. The details involved — even I couldn't put them into words."
"Wha—?!" Misaki's eyes went round again.
Just then, their daughter's clear voice rang out from beyond the counter.
"Dad! Mom! Come out here and look!"
The couple hurried out, supporting each other.
Their daughter Mizukami Sayuri had already ushered the last customers out and closed the shop door. She stood beside the cash register, small hands clutching a thick envelope, her little face alight with irrepressible joy.
"Guess how much we earned tonight!"
"How much?"
"A hundred and ten thousand yen! A full hundred and ten thousand yen!" Sayuri babbled incoherently, looking at her parents with blazing excitement. "We used to work ourselves to death for weeks and not make this much! This is... this is unbelievable!"
Mizukami Sho and Misaki broke into honest, warm smiles.
"It's the publicity effect that Mr. Nohara brought us." Mizukami Sho said softly, wonder in his voice.
"No! It's more than just publicity!" Misaki declared passionately, her eyes brimming with boundless hope for the future. "This is the beginning of our new life! With this money, we can give Sayuri a better life! We could even go on vacation to Hawaii or shopping in Paris, like rich people!"
Mizukami Sho looked at his wife's face — flushed crimson with happiness — and pulled both his wife and daughter into a tight embrace.
"Yes, Misaki, Sayuri!"
"From now on, I will make sure you both live well."
He paused, quiet pride entering his voice. "Soon... we'll be wealthy ourselves."
"Mm!" Misaki and Sayuri nodded vigorously, burying their faces in the man's broad, warm chest. The happiness welling from their hearts made them feel as though they held the entire world.
"Meeting Mr. Nohara was truly the best thing that ever happened to us." Misaki murmured, her voice sweet with gratitude.
"It really was." Mizukami Sho agreed, gazing out the window. The heart that had lain dormant for twenty years began to beat fiercely once more.
"It truly, truly was."