Chapter 76
Love has many faces.
Some kinds flare up like dry wood touched by flame, exploding at the slightest spark. Some are like tiny seeds, quiet and patient, sprouting slowly and growing with the seasons.
Born into an artistic household, animation director Makoto Shinkai pursues beauty and feeling with an almost sacred intensity. Almost every one of his films tells a love story between teenagers. Careful viewers may notice that his protagonists tend to carry a youthful earnestness and a naïveté of heart—boys and girls who have never really tasted love, who are still learning to reach for it and understand it.
What is love? A beautiful first encounter, a trembling heartbeat, an exchange between two sincere hearts. Love is not only the search for happiness; it is the way two people draw closer, learn more clearly what they want, and feel more deeply. It should be at once foggy and precise, pure and luminous.
That pure, aching kind of love is exactly the feeling Shinkai has been trying to capture on film. For a long time he had been searching for a story that moved him in that way—and when he read Your Name, brought to him by Editor-in-Chief Yuto Funao, he recognized at once the story he'd been waiting for. He decided to adapt it as a feature film.
After a week of internal discussions, everything was set. So, on Friday, Makoto Shinkai arranged to meet the original author of the manga—Lucien D. Blackthorn—to talk through the adaptation and negotiate rights.
…
After lunch, Lucien's mother, Eve, went back to rest at the hotel next to the hospital. The afternoon sun poured through the window; its warmth felt pleasant on Lucien's skin. Having finished the last two chapters of Slam Dunk Volume 9, he felt a restless tug and wanted to sit outside in the light.
He wheeled himself toward the door just as two men came down the corridor toward his room.
One was a distinguished man in his fifties: a finely tailored suit, the bearing of an editor who had spent decades in the business. The other looked about thirty, slightly round in the middle, wearing glasses—and Lucien recognized him immediately from publicity photos.
The older man was Yuto Funao, editor-in-chief of Manga Jump. The younger was director Makoto Shinkai. A few days earlier Lucien's editor, Ayano Iida, had said that if the adaptation went well Funao would come in person. Lucien hadn't expected the director to be with him.
"You must be Mr. Whale," Funao said with a bow and a professional, warm smile.
Lucien sat in his wheelchair and returned the greeting. "Editor Funao, Director Shinkai—hello. I'm honored. Please, call me Lucien."
Funao's smile grew softer. "We should have come sooner, but work kept me tied up. Please forgive the delay."
"Editor Funao, your visit is an honor," Lucien answered politely. His tone was calm and humble—exactly the composure that made both men regard him with a kind of affectionate respect.
Funao mentally noted Lucien's demeanor. Such dignity in someone so young, he thought.
Shinkai, though, looked at Lucien with a shadow of discomfort. Funao had briefed him about Lucien's health before visiting: cancer, a count-down on time. Genius—one who had already born remarkable works such as Attack on Titan, Slam Dunk, and Your Name. The contrast struck Shinkai as cruel. He felt the weight of fate pressing on this young author. It made him ache.
"Lucien," Shinkai began, then hesitated. Funao cut in gently. "Shinkai, let's find a quieter place to talk."
Lucien suggested they go out to the small pavilion on the lawn. The breeze was mild; the hospital grounds smelled faintly of cut grass. They took seats under the pavilion's shade.
Shinkai looked at Lucien and said, plain and earnest, "I've decided to make Your Name into a feature film."
Lucien had expected the news and didn't visibly leap; he smiled quietly instead. "It's an honor that Director Shinkai would choose my work."
Shinkai nodded, then tipped his head forward. "Before we begin, Lucien—how did you come up with this story?"
Lucien repeated the answer he'd told others before. He described the small town, the threads of longing and fate, the dreamlike exchange between the two strangers. When he finished, both Shinkai and Funao were silent for a beat—then their expressions shifted. They'd found something new in Lucien's way of thinking, and it surprised them.
The three of them plunged into a detailed discussion on setting, tone, and plot. Lucien, who had seen the Your Name film in his previous life, suggested certain tonal choices, visual moments, and structural beats that fit Shinkai's sensibility. Those ideas sparked images in Shinkai's mind—a comet streaking across the night, a festival in a mountain town, a fragment straying from orbit to strike a town and unsettle time itself. Two strangers, a boy and a girl, linked by dream and distance, bound by catastrophe and longing.
Shinkai's face brightened. "I am certain I can make a beautiful film from this."
Lucien returned the smile. "I believe in your direction."
Then the practicalities began: the adaptation fee and contract.
Japan's film industry and cultural institutions have well-established norms for adaptations. Beyond a licensing fee, original authors can often receive a share of box-office profits. Lucien would not be directly producing; he would license the rights. The offered terms were straightforward: a licensing fee of 2,000,000 yen and 2.5% of the film's net profits.
It wasn't a fortune up front, but Lucien didn't mind. He remembered the box-office success of Your Name in the other timeline: an enormous domestic gross, a massive international return. If this adaptation hit similar heights, the profit share could be life-changing. The thought made his chest tighten—not just for money, but for the opportunity it represented.
Shinkai produced the contract and Lucien read it carefully, then signed.
"Director Shinkai," Lucien asked, "when will production begin? I'm… I'm concerned about when I might be discharged."
Shinkai answered with steady assurance. "Once I'm back, I'll set up a production committee immediately. The investments are already lined up. I need to coordinate painters, animators, and VFX teams to book their schedules. If everything goes smoothly, the project will enter the production-preparation stage in about two weeks."
"Two weeks?" Lucien's face lit up. The idea of leaving the hospital within that time hit him like sunlight after long rain.
"That'll let me go home," he said, his voice small and full of hope. "That would be… more worth celebrating than any sum of money."
Funao, who had been listening, added a question. "Shinkai, how long to completion? When might it release?"
"If we hurry, the film can take about a year," Shinkai replied.
Funao turned then to Lucien. "Lucien, I have a request." His tone was businesslike but friendly. "When the film releases next year, Manga Jump would like to publish the full manga of Your Name on our new mobile app."
Lucien blinked. "Next year?"
Funao explained his plan: Manga Jump had developed a comic-reading mobile app, and the film's release would be the perfect moment to promote it. Releasing the manga in app format timed to the film's buzz would draw viewers into the manga and drive app engagement. Funao said Attack on Titan had been his initial thought as anchor content, but after seeing Your Name—and the possibility that Shinkai would adapt it—he'd shifted his strategy.
"In return, Manga Jump will give extensive promotion and a generous share of paid-subscription revenue," Funao said. "We'll also coordinate single-volume publications."
Lucien had no reason to refuse. The plan was sound: it would boost the manga's audience, give him better returns, and raise the profile of his work. He trusted Funao and the team that had supported him so far, so he agreed.
…
The school bell rang. After the last class of the day, Eriri hurriedly packed her bag and left the classroom. Today was Friday and—normally—she would head to the art club; today she didn't need to. The clock read four in the afternoon. In past months, Friday had meant shopping or a movie in Shibuya, Ikebukuro, or Harajuku with friends. Sometimes she wandered Akihabara for new games and posters. But recently, her Friday ritual was different: she raced to the hospital to read Slam Dunk in one sitting—and to visit Lucien.
As Eriri stepped out, her chatty friend Satomi Azusa picked up her own bag and tailed her like an excited shadow. "Hmph—forgetting your friends already? Let's see who you're off to 'date,' Eriri-chan."
Azusa loved gossip, and Eriri—school beauty and confidante—was prime material. Without the club, Eriri walked toward the hospital, humming under her breath. She looked pleased, as if the day were full of small, secret joys.
Azusa followed like a thief in the breeze—part curious, part hopeful, all energy. She'd been on the case for weeks: tracking Eriri's odd habits, her sudden devotion to manga releases, and her furtive hospital visits. Whatever this mystery was, Azusa wanted the first scoop.
They walked together across the campus toward the station, their shoes tapping in time like a staccato conversation.