My eyes wander over the photos, some of them shiny and new, some of them faded and disintegrating around the corners. There’s a snapshot of a little boy cramming taiyaki into his mouth, his eyes lit with glee. A worn photo of an elderly couple sitting side by side on the plaza—not touching, but giving each other a tender sidelong look that makes you feel the warmth of their companionship. It’s that thing I always see when I look at Belle and Rory bonding, at my Aunties being all romantic. That connection and sense of belonging to each other.
And of course there are so many shots of Nikkei Week, smiling faces and the kaleidoscope of bright colors that is the parade. A particular color catches my eye, a flash of vivid orange. My gaze skitters to that photo. It’s near the top right-hand corner of the wall, nearly covered by the other photos that have been taped around it.
It almost seems to give off a little extra shimmer, as if calling to me.
Two teenage girls beam at me from the photo, arms around each other. They’re both wearing brightly colored yukata—it’s the orange yukata on one of the girls that’s caught my eye. I’ve looked at this wall collage thousands of times and that orange has never stood out to me before. It probably wouldn’t have stood out to me ever . . . except that I was wearing the exact same color today. The fabric is identical, down to the intricate pattern of intertwining blue and yellow flowers. I’m pretty sure that is my yukata. Or Auntie Suzy’s yukata. Most of her vintage kimono and yukata were inherited from various distant branches of the family. Maybe this is one of them?
I’m so laser-focused on the yukata, it takes me a minute to actually look at the girl’s face.
When I do, my mouth goes dry.
How . . . can this be? How . . .
I swallow, trying to regain my bearings. I stare at the photo harder, willing it to give me answers. But it’s so high up, I can’t make out every detail. I am suddenly consumed by the desperate desire to see the photo up close, to be able to study it. To have just one thing today make sense.
I need to see more.
Normally I’d never even think of disrupting Suehiro’s seating arrangement—the silent, judgy wrath of the Aunties is not something I want to be on the receiving end of. But all of that is overwhelmed by my need to see more of this photo. I don’t think I’ve wanted something this much in my entire life.
So I grab a chair that’s pushed into one of the tables, my hands shaking as I drag it over to the photo wall. The chair squeaks against the cheap plastic of the floor—a noise made all the more ominous by the restaurant’s eerie quiet. The only other sound in the place is my labored breathing. I consider myself in pretty decent shape, but my need to see this photo ratchets up my nerves, makes my heart beat faster.
I climb on top of the chair and stand on my tiptoes, reaching out to graze my fingertips against the photo. Now that I’m closer, I can see it more clearly. And the thing that sparked my need to see it up close becomes all the more real.
The teenage girl on the left is most definitely a young Grace Kimura.
She’s not quite Grace Kimura, Movie Star, yet—her hair is a long, unstyled thicket, falling artlessly to her waist. Her front teeth are a little crooked. And she’s not wearing a speck of makeup. But the brilliance of her smile, the way it draws you right in, that undeniable charisma—that’s all there. You can see the future Grace Kimura she will become.
It feels like my heart has dropped into my shoes, and I get all light-headed. I rest my hand against the wall to keep myself from toppling off the chair and crashing into the carefully laid out table setups—that would really make the Aunties mad.
The answer to the question in my head is floating around me in pieces. But I’m suddenly too scared to put them together.
I’m staring at Grace so intently, I almost don’t see the other girl in the photo. When my eyes finally slide to her, I get the last piece I need.
“Rika-chan?”
I let out a high-pitched squeak of alarm, my heart catapulting into my throat, and whirl around to see the Auntie bustling in from the kitchen with my food. She gives me a quizzical look, her brows drawing together as she takes in the image of me perched precariously on a chair for no apparent reason.
“I was just, uh, checking something,” I say, flashing her a bright smile.
She frowns but doesn’t inquire further, facing the register to ring me up. While her back is turned, I snatch the photo from the wall and stuff it in my pocket.
I clamber down and put the chair back where I found it, taking extra pains to make sure it’s aligned exactly right. Then I pay and hurry out of there, barely noticing that the Auntie is already readjusting the chair and tsk-ing at me under her breath.
Once I’m back out on the street, I pull the photo out of my pocket so I can stare at it some more. But all my staring doesn’t change what the photo’s telling me.
The other girl in the photo is Auntie Suzy. She must’ve been in her early twenties at this point, but she still looks like a teenager. The way she and Grace Kimura are embracing is undeniably sisterly—it reminds me of Belle and Rory. And Grace is wearing the very same yukata I was wearing today . . .
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I yank it free, jamming it to my ear.
“Hello—”
“Rika!” Belle shrieks on the other end. “Where are you?! You left forever ago, and I’m worried you passed out because
