Katashi’s eyes, which are looking through the tempered glass window of the jet plane, are blank. It almost seems as if he’s merely watching a movie behind the window – an action blockbuster where bullets slice through the air and mushrooms of smoke and fire burst from jet planes as they stagger dangerously in mid-air. It seems as if he isn’t the one controlling this defense jet plane in the midst of intense gunfire exchange, but he is.

Katashi’s body is on auto-pilot today. It’s September twenty two.

A bullet races towards him. He pulls the gears by instinct (months of practice have made him a natural at this) and successfully dodges the close shave with death. Katashi’s heart pounds wildly inside his chest, but his mind is still fixated on only one thing. As he zooms into the crimson horizon, Katashi heaves a sigh. He had wished to be back by Akari’s first birthday to celebrate it as a family. However, hopes are just hopes, and there’s no bargaining with reality. This war is dragging on longer than he expected.

He watches as the bright golden sphere of flame – the only fire here that isn’t destructive – slowly disappear behind the clouds. The light is diminishing, and that’s when they stop fighting. Akari means light. “Happy birthday,” he mutters under his breath, but the words only end up being drowned in the loud explosions and whirring of engines. Happy birthday, Akari.

#

He remembers her light tug on his trousers when he left.

She wasn’t able to speak properly yet, but she kept murmuring a sound which resembled “Daddy” and gazed intently at him, emerging sadness in her round orbs. “Daddy’s just going to fly some airplanes for a while. I won’t be long,” he comforted, squatting down to meet her little brown eyes with his black ones. “I’ll get you the Doraemon bag when I come home,” he said, her hair gently with one hand. Her hair is soft but a little sparse, just like Katashi’s. He thinks it’s cute how Akari obviously resembles both him and his wife, Manami, in different ways. Akari cracked a smile, revealing her dark pink gums and incomplete set of teeth.

#

“Hey man, so you’re here. It’s so difficult to communicate without mobile phones, I swear. Still not used to it.”

Katashi’s thoughts disperse upon hearing the familiar voice. Hayato, his closest friend at the Tokyo Defense Camp, takes a seat next to him on the dusty kerb. Katashi looks at him and simply acknowledges his presence with a nod.

“It’s today, isn’t it? Your D-Day,” Hayato says as he mixes the rice.

The sides of Katashi’s lips rise just slightly. “Hm,” he grunts while swallowing a mouthful of rice.

Hayato sighs heavily and leans backwards with his eyes closed. “It’s depressing to think about how this war is separating families.”

“Hey,” Katashi finally speaks that evening, “Have you heard about the situation in Osaka?”

Hayato shakes his head no. “Didn’t your wife say they’re doing fine?”

Katashi’s gaze is fixed on nothing in particular on the ground as his swinging legs casually kick some dust. “She did. She always does, but I can’t help being restless until I see them in flesh. It’s different.”

“Of course it is,” Hayato says, “Of course.” There is a slight pause before he continues, “This war will end very soon. It has to.”

Katashi looks up to gaze at the starless sky instead. It’s so unlike Osaka where he gets to stargaze frequently with Manami and Akari. No wonder he feels homesick.

Very soon, Hayato said. How soon is very soon? It is already not soon enough since he has missed Akari’s first birthday, he thinks.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the same wrinkly piece of paper where he drew September’s calendar. Hayato has seen him doing the same routine almost every day (almost, because Hayato doesn’t see him on some days). The word “D-Day” is neatly written on the box for today. He draws a cross in that box and then slips the paper back into his pocket. “Let’s go,” Katashi says as he gets up with an empty bowl.

That night, he queues up at the telephone booth like always and makes a call back home.

“Is Akari still awake? I want to sing her a birthday song,” Katashi says, a little shyly, his free hand cupping his mouth at the speaker to boost the volume. “I think she has fallen asleep,” Manami laughs delicately on the other end, “but you can sing anyway. I’ll turn on the speaker.”

So Katashi sings softly, and his heart swells with the yearning of home as he imagines baby Akari’s sleeping figure in the crib. To his surprise, he hears Akari’s delighted giggle after he’s done singing. “Somehow your song woke her up,” Manami says, and Katashi can hear the smile in her voice. “Or maybe it’s just daddy’s familiar voice.”

And once again, Katashi leaves the telephone booth with his heart misplaced miles away.

#

It’s only when the enemy plane gets nearer, barely an arm’s length away from Katashi’s, that he realizes something is amiss. The enemy planes are way more ferocious today – they push the boundaries and come as close as they can. Shoot as many bullets as their capacity allows. The planes are so close that he can see the soldier from the rival nation in the cockpit. Exceptionally deep creases and tightly pursed lips – there’s an unusual look of desperation on the soldier’s face. And then it dawns upon Katashi. Today is the day. It’s do or die.

Katashi charges forward with all his strength and beads of perspiration roll down his forehead, some even falling into his eyes, blurring his vision. Katashi can’t be bothered to wipe the drops of salty liquid away, not when his life is at stake, not when the life of Manami’s husband, and Akari’s father, is at stake. Frankly speaking, this is the day Katashi has been waiting for – the day when his suffering and worry end. Yet, in this moment, he’s extremely anxious about making it out of this bloody war alive. He wouldn’t really mind losing an arm or a leg, but he needed to stay alive. Katashi gives it his all, eyes alert like a hawk, deft hands frantically flying across the controls and buttons, shooting his enemies down before they have a chance at him.

He grimaces at the stinging smell of burning planes and a tinge of blood. He feels bad, if he were to be honest, that he’s taking all these lives in exchange for his own. They probably have their own loved ones to return to and their own ambitions to achieve. He feels really bad.

But Katashi, if you don’t bring them down, you’re the one who will be gone. Someone has to go. It doesn’t really make a difference, does it? His commander uttered those words to him just six months earlier. Someone has to go. He lets out a deep, deep sigh as he pulls on a gear. But suddenly, he senses something scalding hot coming from his right.

! He mentally curses as his plane jerks hard to the left, loses balance and begins to dive down through the thin clouds. The right wing, which fell apart and became an indistinguishable tongue of flame, falls even faster. Katashi sees a fleeting image as it dashes past the windscreen, but it doesn’t seem that fast because he’s falling as well. It’s nothing like a roller coaster, he muses. It’s a gnawing and awfully painful feeling in your heart that you might die in a minute or so. He begins to pray, hard.

#

Katashi holds onto his ribcage the whole time he’s limping. He knows he shouldn’t have left the hospital, but he couldn’t help following his heart. The landscape of shop houses, traffic and curious eyes are but a smeared palette as he focuses on a single motive.

It’s pretty much a miracle that I survived, though. A stiff smile forms on his face. I’ll see Manami and Akari really soon. This pain will cease. I’ll have as much time as I need to rest. With this determination, he deals with the acute sensation of broken bones threatening to protrude from his chest or into his lungs. Katashi means firmness. He trudges on.

#

After the two-hour train ride from Osaka to Tokyo, he knows he ought to go home, but he doesn’t. He can’t go home without getting the Doraemon bag that he promised Akari. There’s nothing he longs more than to see her delighted grin again. No one picks up when he dials home. Well, Manami might be busy.

He’s lucky that he finds the bag at the first shop he visits. The pain in his chest is getting sharper, but he stumbles his way to the bus stop. He’s heading home, finally.

The place where he calls home looks worse than he imagined. The street is covered in soot, fallen trees, fallen leaves, and even fallen people. He frowns hard and fear creeps up his throat. Looking at this dismal city which has once been warm and vibrant, his heart shivers. It isn’t winter yet but the place is freezing. He can barely feel the pain from his fractured ribs anymore; his heart now hurts more.

Stepping on piles of ashes and dust that the place has been reduced to, he finally reaches their unit. He spots Manami sitting near the toppled and damaged door, arms hugging her folded-up legs. She appears to be shivering. Is it the cold?

“Manami,” he calls gently. She stirs just slightly. “Manami, I’m back,” he says, a tad more eagerly (he can’t be very eager when bodies are lying around everywhere).

Manami swerves around and scrambles onto her feet. She stands unsteadily, like she’s weak in her legs. Katashi senses it immediately.

“Manami, what’s wrong?” he says, his grasp on the handle of the Doraemon bag getting tighter by the second. Manami abruptly pulls Katashi into a hug, burying her face in his chest. He feels like his heart might burst from sorrow. Something was definitely wrong.

Manami stays silent, save for her broken sobs as she chokes on her tears.

“I shouldn’t have left her alone.” Manami repeats over and over.

At this moment, Katashi looks over Manami’s shoulder and notices a strangely still figure covered by a fleece blanket, deeper in their apartment ruins. After giving a few pats on Manami’s back, he breaks their embrace and walks nearer to the figure.

His fingers tremble badly as he reaches out to the blanket and flings it aside. His breathing is shallow and his teeth begin to chatter involuntarily. He blinks hard in hopes that this is just a bad dream. But there she remains before his eyes.

Akari, his precious daughter he didn’t have a chance to celebrate her first birthday with. Akari, whom he deeply, deeply loves. He falls onto the ground beside her, gingerly holding her head and right hand. Tears overflow from his eyes as he runs a shaky finger along her severely burnt, peeling red skin. Glass and ceramic shards are embedded all over her small, delicate body. It’s all too cruel, for a one-year-old girl to die this way.

He still remembers one of the happiest times, when they were naming their newborn girl.

“Akari,” he suggested with a bright smile, “Akari means light. The light of our lives.”

The happiest times can prompt the saddest tears. Because hopes are just hopes, and there’s no bargaining with reality.