Magic beneath us.

This morning again, the sun rose as powerful as it did the last few weeks. The bright light glittered on the golden ornaments of Ōsaka Castle, towering above the city and being reflected in the water of the small Japanese Garden.

The times when it has been the highest building in the city were long gone. Huge skyscrapers littered the surrounding area. With the traditional beauty in near sight, the glossy facades looked almost surreal, illuminated by the rising morning sun.

Near the harbor, Ōsaka was crossed by numerous rivers and countless bridges reaching over them. During night, the asphalt and concrete did not cool down enough to make it a pleasant experience walking the streets. Although, most people who were currently outside, did not have much of a choice.

It was the first day of summer break—a Saturday in the morning. Takurō followed the side street parallel to a river. He could already see his destination flashing between the trees of a small park: A big shopping mall, right behind the water.

The city center of Ōsaka was busy as always. Countless cars and trucks scurried over the massive two-story bridge that would lead him to the other side. The elevated expressways were just in the right angle to provide for a nice shadow. A sightseeing boat passed underneath his feet.

The mall he was aiming for provided for a seemingly endless system of hallways. It was easy to get lost here, but by now Takurō already knew the way by heart: Up to the second floor and in the furthermost corner to the right.

He came along a rather unremarkable shop window that presented several movie posters. However, none of them belonged to the current block busters that lured huge crowds to the theatres.

He pushed open the door to a small, cozy cinema and found himself in a room that seemed to be unsure if it wanted to be a café, a museum, or a library.

Little tables were arranged in the middle and there was a bar at the side, all surrounded by bookshelves and ancient movie equipment: Exhibits of cameras, projectors, lights, and all sorts of microphones from the last century. They were arranged on little pedestals or in dedicated showcases, scattered around the room.

The books laid out were screenplays from famous movies or other movie-related literature, revolving around classics from Japan and all different countries of the world. Behind a few big windows, the slightly elevated view across Ōsaka’s skyline opened up.

Working in a small art-house cinema probably wasn’t the best-paying side job, but since Takurō was all about movies, and was happy about inspiration for his own screenplays, he had a lot of fun working here.

His boss and owner of the cinema already stood behind the bar and was serving another man, across him, sipping at a coffee. They seemed to be in a similar age, both with silvery and rather thin hair.

“Hey!” he said towards them as soon as they noticed him.

“Takurō-kun! Welcome back.” The man with the coffee replied and gave him a warm smile. “Early as always.” His name was Yutaka Hakoda, a regular customer and close friend from his boss.

“Hey!” His boss greeted him and threw a drying towel over his shoulder. “How’s it going?”

Takurō came behind the bar and stored his bag in a tiny cubby. He already wore the polo shirt with the logo that identified him as staff from the little cinema. With this question, strangely enough, the encounter with Kukai came back to his mind. “Good,” he said. Plain. Simple.

“Oh, come on. If you just say good, it has been anything but good, f’sure!” his boss groaned. “So come on, tell us, yeah?”

“Noburo-san!” Hakoda hissed under his breath. “Don’t push the boy so much, yah! Maybe he doesn’t wanna tell us.”

“If he doesn’t wanna tell us, he should tell us that!” Noburo Toyoshima was a really direct person—Takurō was aware of that much by now. They knew what they had at each other. Toyoshima probably would have adopted Takurō, if his mother wouldn’t have a say in that as well.

He closed the door to the cubby and reared again to face the two men with another of his warm smiles. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing, really.”

“Look, Noburo-san: Nothing to worry about.” Hakoda nodded with a wide smile.

“So, it’s about a girl, ‘suppose …” Toyoshima narrowed his eyes.

Takurō sighed.

“It is about a girl, f’sure. Again, about … ah, what was her name again … Aka…, Aku…?”

“Kukai-san,” Takurō corrected. “But if you almost remember her name, you probably remember what I told you regarding her as well, ‘ight?”

Toyoshima groaned. He hung up the towel to its original place next to the coffee machine. “This main character bullshit?”

“Noburo-san! No swear words in front of the boy, yah!”

“He’s not a kid anymore! He should man up and ask her out, now. Maybe she says no, so what? The sun rises the same on the next day. You have no idea how often I got dumped throughout my life, yeah. But at least I won’t be eaten up by what-ifs for the rest of my life. Sometimes a man needs to do what a man needs to do, y’know.”

Toyoshima punched his hand on the counter to give more weight to his point.

Hakoda’s gaze nervously flipped between Takurō and his boss. “Noburo-san! Don’t put Takurō-kun under such pressure, now!” He looked at the boy. “Don’t take that by heart. Some people just need a bit more time, especially if they are as gentle and kind as you. Maybe you’ll find the right reason to talk to her one day, ‘suppose.”

Takurō sighed again and turned around to both men. He knew they only meant good, but in the end, he didn’t know anything about Kukai, only that she was nice and joyful towards everyone. Confessing his interest in her would have just felt wrong and caused by nothing but physical attraction at this point.

“There are countless guys confessing to her all the time and she turned all of them down, even though she clearly does not want to hurt anyone, y’know. I don’t want to force her into a situation where she has to hurt me and feels bad because of it.” He gave them a bitter smile. “So, I rather keep my distance and enjoy observing her from afar, y’know.”

“No justifying yourself in front of us, yeah,” Hakoda said gently. “You’ve got this! This way or another, f’sure!”

“You’re giving up before you even tried, yah!” Toyoshima crossed his arms. “You know how your old man and your mom got together? She was the most popular girl in his high school, I still remember him sitting right there and raving about her. Until the day he went and asked her out. Guess you don’t need to know the rest of the story.”

Takurō lowered his gaze. “Kukai-san and I have literally nothing to do with one another. She is head of the cultural festival planning committee, and there is one girl from her volleyball team in my class and that’s it with connections between the both of us. My head is just projecting an ideal on her, because she seems nice and pretty at the same time.”

Both men looked at him for a moment. Hakoda was the first to nod lightly. “Y’know what, Takurō-kun? Keep doing what you love, and you’ll suddenly find someone who does as well, f’sure. There’ll be a time you know is right and—great if you are brave enough to ask Kukai-san out—but it is completely okay to wait for someone else, ’ight?”

Toyoshima heaved a long sigh and turned towards the coffee machine. He took a small cup. “I’ll need an espresso, now. Maybe I’m romanticizing the past here, but I can’t remember this being so complicated back in the days, yah.”

Before setting the machine into motion, he halted briefly, then turned back at Takurō. “We’re just getting a new exhibition in the gallery. Please help them with arranging everything, yah?” He pulled out a flyer from the side of the counter and showed it to Takurō.

On a surface level, the small cinema seemed to offer an array of things that did not really work together: A café, a library for movie literature, exhibits of antique movie equipment, the two small movie theatres; but somehow, they still worked in a strange way.

It was a space to experience and exchange about the art of cinema. In these lines, Toyoshima had added a new experience to the portfolio a few years ago: A small art gallery occupied a room in the back that had been too small for another theatre.

People rarely visited explicitly for the gallery, but it was a pleasant way to spend the time waiting for shows to start. Mostly small and local artists from Ōsaka exhibited their works here.

“Magic beneath us—an urban photographic adventure,” was the name of the new exhibition. Takurō inspected the flyer. It looked professional.

There also was the small photograph of a skyscraper. Dragons circling around it were painted above the image. The photography and the illustration seemed like an unusual combination, but the artwork overall had an alluring charm to it.

“Wow, that looks amazing!” he said and laid the flyer back to walk around the bar.

“Make sure to be ready when the first show starts. Just under an hour, yah!” Toyoshima called after him and finally started the coffee machine.

“A’ight! See ya!”

The gallery was still rather empty. The artist probably arrived just a bit earlier. Only a few art prints had been leaned against the walls, at places where they were meant to be hung.

As on the flyer, they also showed photographs with someone having drawn fantastical elements on top of them: A backstreet with a cat-like creature, a train extended to look like a cute centipede and many other art prints.

Takurō didn’t notice his breath getting caught in his throat. These photographs, these images—they all contained a surreal beauty; captured in warm and vibrant colors just like they were painted with light and shadow themselves.

There was something melancholic and insecure about them, but also something whimsical and magical: the way they were framed, making use of the urban architecture of Ōsaka; the way they extended reality with colorful and vibrant creatures.

It was a unique view on the world; like perceiving a different layer of reality and making it visible to those who could not see it. There was magic in this world, and even though, there was misery and pain, there still was so much beauty.

Whoever had created these indescribably beautiful artworks must have had a keen eye for the quiet and vulnerable gentleness of the world—and a way to eloquently capture it through their lens. Were these analog photographs?

‘Everything will be fine,’ the images seemed to say. ‘Don’t worry so much.’ A strange fluttery grew inside Takurō’s stomach and blossomed into something beyond mere admiration. Who was this person that felt the same way he did? A gentle wind chime rang in his ear, and suddenly tears welled down his cheeks.

He was frozen in place in presence of something that seemed to be speaking so deeply to his heart. Then, he heard a voice. “Kanōya-kun? What are you doing here?”