In a quiet stretch of countryside, where rice paddies caught the light like mirrors and the wind carried the scent of cedar trees, Chuuya Nakahara lived a life stitched together by early mornings, heavy buckets, and the steady rhythm of chores. He was fifteen, with calloused palms and sunburned cheeks, used to waking with the roosters and working until the last sliver of daylight. His world was small—a scattered village tucked between green hills, where the school had fewer students than fingers on one hand. But he never minded it much. Especially not when Dazai was around.

Dazai didn’t live nearby—his family’s land was tucked across the valley, past a winding forest path—but they made the distance seem short. They stayed over at each other’s houses whenever they could, and in homes ruled by quiet discipline and long to-do lists, both boys learned to be useful. Chuuya swept porches at Dazai’s place like it was his own, and Dazai folded laundry under Chuuya’s grandmother’s sharp-eyed watch. That’s just how it was. Respect wasn’t optional—it was ingrained.

When their chores were done and the sun hadn’t yet dipped, they’d wander into the woods, feet brushing moss and twigs, talking about nothing and everything. They watched the sun rise from Dazai’s roof and the stars blink to life by Chuuya’s barn. On hot days, they’d run barefoot to the lake, shirts flung aside, diving into the cold water with loud, careless laughter. They bickered and teased like brothers, but there was something steadier under it—a bond built from dirt under fingernails, from early bus rides and shared silences.

In a place where time moved slow and steady, Chuuya never needed many people. Just Dazai. That was enough.