The cicadas sang loudly in the trees, echoing through the scorching summer air. Under the shade of a hard oak tree, we sat together, each of us licking one of old man Romuji's ice popsicles. I think we were fifteen at the time.
I'm the one on the far right—Karao. But my friends call me Kubo. I was a skinny kid, weak-looking, with brownish hair and eyes. I wore my prized 2002 Brazil World Cup shirt—the one I begged and cried for until my mom finally bought it at the mall.
Next to me was Mada. We all called him Chuck, mostly because he was big and round like a ball. He always wore the same thing—an old red shirt and shorts that barely reached his knees. He liked keeping his hair short, said it was less sweaty that way.
The boy devouring his popsicle like a madman was Johan. We called him Jono. He was obsessed with manga, especially JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, and every week he dyed his hair a different color. He was always doing something weird or dramatic, usually both.
I think that day was when everything began to change.
"KUBO! You won the popsicle stick again? You damn lucky bastard!" Chuck yelled, frustrated. He'd lost three weeks in a row.
"Heh! You won today, Kubo, but tomorrow I'll win. ZA WARUDO!" Jono shouted, striking another one of his ridiculous poses.
"Ugh, not again. Is that another one of your JoJo quotes?" Chuck asked, crunching chips between his teeth.
"Impossible! You can speak while time is stopped? That means… you're a Stand user too!" Jono continued, acting like a lunatic.
"Chuck, let's go. He's gone full crazy again. And stop eating so many chips!" I groaned.
Chuck ignored me. "Hey, Kubo… I've been thinking." His face turned serious as he ate the last crispy bit of his chips.
"About what?" I asked, carefully sucking on my newly-won popsicle, trying to keep it from dripping.
"What do you wanna do in the future? Middle school's almost over, y'know."
That made me pause. Some of the melted juice dripped onto the ground.
"Hmm… what I want to do?" I looked up, a little dazed. Then smiled. "That's easy. I wanna be a football star. Like Ronaldo Fenomeno!" I grinned proudly and tilted my head to show off my shirt.
"You think that's possible?" Chuck asked, his eyes still thoughtful.
"Of course! Dreams are supposed to feel impossible—until we make them real." I replied with confidence.
"Then let's make it official," said Jono, standing tall. "Let's take a Shrine Oath. We'll each write our dreams on paper and hang them at the shrine."
"Nice! Last one there pays for the next popsicle!" I shouted, dashing off as fast as I could.
Chuck and Jono ran after me, not willing to be the one stuck paying.
The Shrine of Ojamuri sat 500 steps up the mountain, an old wooden structure visited by hundreds of people each year with wishes in their hearts. But that day, three idiots climbed it just to make a childhood pact.
"C'mon, Chuck! This is why you need to stop eating so much—you're dying just from the stairs!" I teased as he slumped near the top, gasping.
The shrine itself was small, ancient, with tales whispered to be centuries old. A wooden box sat beside it with slips of paper for visitors to write their wishes.
Jono grabbed three slips and handed one to each of us.
"Let's write our dreams," he said, trying to sound like an anime protagonist.
We each scribbled something quietly, then tied our slips to the top rail of the shrine.
Suddenly, dark clouds rolled in. The wind picked up.
"Run! It's gonna rain!" I yelled.
We all sprinted down the mountain as the sky cracked open. The wind whipped through the trees, lifting our wish papers into the air like leaves caught in a storm—floating, drifting, vanishing into the sky.
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In the alleys of the slums, on the outskirts of town, lived a boy named Ray.
His hair was tangled and matted with dirt, his eyes the warm, deep color of maple leaves in autumn. He lived in a cramped, crumbling house with twelve others. His father, a bitter drunk, beat him often—especially because he was the eldest of ten siblings. His mother worked long shifts at the local rug factory, too tired to stop what happened at home.
But that day... that day was different.
Thunder cracked through the sky as rain hammered the rusted tin roof. Inside, his father's rage exploded again. A shout. A belt. A blow. Ray collapsed, barely conscious, his vision swimming. As he hit the floor, his four-years-younger brother rushed forward to shield him.
The belt struck the younger boy across the face. Blood splattered across the wall.
Something inside Ray snapped.
He lunged upward and swung with all the fury and fear bottled inside him. His fist landed square on his father's face—breaking his nose, splitting his lip, sending him crashing to the floor with a grunt.
Silence.
Then panic.
Ray didn't wait to see what would happen next. Heart racing, he grabbed his injured brother, slung an arm over his shoulder, and ran. Blood stained the boy's shirt. Their house, their hell, blurred behind them in the rain.
He had no shoes. Every step sliced at his feet, peeling skin from bone. But he didn't stop. He couldn't.
Through the town they ran—through puddles and backstreets—until Ray spotted a small, weather-worn house at the edge of a mountain path. Desperate, drenched, and shaking, he banged on the door.
An old man opened it, blinking against the rain.
"Who are you, little boy? What are you doing here?" the man asked.
Ray said nothing. He dropped to his knees, tears mixing with the rain.
"Please… help my brother."
Back at the house they fled, their mother came home. She saw the open door, the blood on the floor, and did not scream. She did not search.
She only sighed, eyes blank.
Some part of her had known this day would come. Fewer mouths to feed, she thought. Maybe it was for the best.
In the old man's mountain house, the storm passed. The man, weathered and gray, his breath raspy, gently cleaned and bandaged the younger boy's head.
"What's his name?" he asked, voice low.
"Jay…" Ray whispered, tears still trailing down his cheek. "It's my fault…"
And he told him everything—the abuse, the pain, the escape.
The old man sat back, thoughtful. "Hmm… you're strong," he said with a cough.
"Tell me your name."
"Ray. I'm Ray."
The old man stood, pulling on a faded jogging suit. He glanced at a dusty photo on the wall—of a young boxer, mid-punch, lit under the bright lights of Japan's grandest arena.
"Ray," he said, turning back to the boy.
"Do you want to be strong?"
Ray hesitated, his voice cracked but steady.
"Does being strong… earn money?"
The man nodded. "Only if you become the best."
Ray's eyes burned—not with tears, but with something else now. A dark, determined fire.
"Then I'll become the strongest. I'll earn enough to live free… far away from those scumbags."
And in that moment, despite the bruises and broken skin, Ray didn't look like a victim.
He looked like a fighter.
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Here's a refined and polished version of the June & Rick section for smoother reading, more natural dialogue, and emotional clarity:
In the far west corner of O'Hara, nestled between ivy-covered walls, stood a quiet library.
Among the shelves and silence worked a girl named June. She was in the final year of middle school—a girl wrapped in quiet anxiety, more at ease with books than people. Her loves were simple: romantic novels and the soft melody of her violin. She worked part-time at the library, both to earn money and to borrow the stories she loved.
With her silky hair tied in a neat ponytail braid and a plain dress that swayed just above her knees, she looked like she belonged between the shelves—gentle, quiet, and always tucked behind a desk.
In front of that desk, every day without fail, sat a boy.
Always in the same chair. Always with a science fiction novel in hand.
His name was Rick—a student from the same school as June.
He loved science. He loved stars, robots, time travel, and the idea of discovering the unknown. But more than anything, he loved coming to the library because of June.
Though he never dared to say it.
That day, on the eve of the new school year, Rick sat with his head resting on the desk, a book held upside-down in his hand. Lost in thought, his heart felt heavier than usual—knowing he'd soon have less time to come here.
Suddenly, a hand tapped his shoulder.
Startled, Rick jerked up—and his head accidentally bumped straight into June's face.
"Ow! That hurtsii…" June winced, her hand pressed to her lip.
"Ah! June!! I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to—are you okay?" Rick panicked, jumping to his feet.
She waved it off, rubbing her mouth gently. "It's okay. Just a bump…"
She looked at him curiously. "You looked spaced out. Is something wrong?"
Rick glanced at his upside-down book, embarrassed.
"No, not really… Just thinking, I guess."
Then he caught her eyes flicking to the book cover.
"Do you like science fiction?" he asked.
She hesitated, then smiled shyly. "A little… mostly the ones with a good couple in them."
"Oh… I see." Rick smiled, his gaze drifting to the violin case leaning behind her chair.
"You play violin?"
She looked down, fidgeting with her fingers.
"Yes. A little. I'm not very good."
"I'd love to hear you play someday."
Rick's voice was soft, honest.
June blushed, eyes wide for a second. Then she grabbed her bag in a hurry.
"Ah! I'm getting late. I'll see you at school tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah! See you." Rick nodded, smiling as she walked away.
He looked back at the book in his hands—this one about recent scientific discoveries—but for once, he wasn't thinking about space or time machines.
He was thinking about a girl with a violin and a soft voice.
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Who would've guessed that the last day of summer would change everything?