Chapter 1

It’s my first rejection.

All right, not my first rejection ever, but my first rejection for writing.

It came late last night, with a ding on my phone.

Dear Kasano-san,

Thank you for your submission, “Fireflies Like Starlight,” to the “Young Writers Short Fiction” Contest. Unfortunately, we have decided not to continue on to the next round of consideration. This is not a reflection of the quality of your work. We look forward to your next submission.

Sincerely,

The Tohoku Young Writers Team

I had hoped that I could just sleep it off, but when I read it again when I woke up, all hope of writing left me. It’s a testament to my failure as a writer, proof that I’ll never amount to anything.

It was a story about a boy that became a firefly and his adventures in a magical world, inspired by a local folk story up in the nearby mountains. I had filled a notebook — my special Kamen Rider notebook my mom bought for me at the museum in Ishinomaki — with ideas on the world. I wrote outlines and brainstormings, and I even drew a map of the world, the forest full of fireflies, ladybugs, and stag beetles, and there was a castle in the center with a giant rose sprouting out from its tallest tower; mountains surrounded the forest, where demons and dragons dwelled. It looks pretty impressive, if I do say so myself.

I finished the story in a little over three-thousand words. Longer than any essay I’ve had to make for school.

After all that, I showed it to my homeroom teacher, Mr. Sasaki. I’d always pester him after the first year, asking him whatever questions popped into my head for stories.

He’d be incredibly helpful over it, especially with this last story. He taught biology, so his knowledge of bugs helped a lot. He’s a young teacher, not even thirty yet, and he has the energy of a high school student, and still has similar interests as us. He’s really easy to talk to.

It took a while to build up the courage to ask him to read any of my stories. He lit up and looked at them.

The first story I showed him was called A Lost Cat in Another World, an isekai about exactly what it sounded like: a cat that is transported to another world, with knights and dragons.

It was really bad, and I had stopped writing it after the second chapter.

My second story was about an alien jellyfish creature. I didn’t finish it either. I didn’t even give it a title.

Despite that, I showed the first chapters of those stories to Mr. Sasaki.

“You’re a really good writer, Sota!” he had said. He had told me about the Tohoku Young Writers contest before the end of the school year. “The prize is a trip to Kyoto to participate in a workshop with published writers. I definitely think you should give it a try.”

And so I did. I submitted the manuscript in May and waited to hear back, coming up with new ideas for stories in the meantime. Now, two months later, I feel like I've hit a brick wall.

The rejection stings, like a mosquito is latched onto me, draining me dry.

Before, I was able to get up at five, get dressed, and write until it was time for breakfast, and then leave for school around eight. But now, I don’t have the energy to write this morning,

It’s almost seven, and my door flies open. “Are you writing?!” My little sister, Sorana, already dressed in her junior high school uniform, a sailor-style suit with a green ribbon, short-sleeved for summer, and a dark green pleated skirt. Her hair in a little bun, her bangs messy. She’s my biggest fan, loving everything I write. She was the one who came up with the title Fireflies Like Starlight.

“No, not today,” I tell her.

She frowns. “Oh. Okay. Well, mom says you need to get ready. There’s soup and extra rice ready downstairs.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I’m fine.”

She marches over to me, swipes my phone from my hand. I roll to face the wall as she reads the rejection message. “Oh.” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” I tell her.

Sorana grabs my arm and yanks me out of bed. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen you like this before. I know you don’t do well with rejection — you were in a total slump for days when that one girl turned you down.”

It was true. The last rejection was from a girl in my class, Ayami. She had long hair, and a round face like a peach with cheeks that reminded me a bit of a hamster, with the cuteness to match. I wrote those thoughts and feelings down and gave it to her at the end of the school year.

My face is turning red as an apple just thinking about it. It was embarrassing when I gave it to her after homeroom on the last day of school. Seeing her in the hallways still fills me with dread.

I don’t know what it is. When I receive any sort of rejection, it’s like I shut down, like I’m feeling now. I’m not really tall, or muscular, and I’m not particularly smart (though Mom does say I have a good sense of imagination). I’m just average, and that’s the problem. I don’t really stand out among my peers, some of whom are sports stars or amazing artists. I’m not in any school club, and I spend my time in the library to work on homework or write my stories, probably coming across as some lone loser.

Sorana gives me a hug. “You’ll be okay.”

That makes me smile. She was always good at that.

I pat her head, then dress in my summer uniform after she leaves. I wash my face in the bathroom, then head down to the kitchen.

My mom always got up extra early to prepare lunches for us, and something small for breakfast, usually instant miso soup or scrambled eggs. When I was writing late, I would stuff the cold scrambled eggs into an onigiri to eat on the way to school.

Instead, I roll the rice into the size of a tennis ball with some salt and eat it as I walk to school. I have an extra thirty minutes before I’d usually get to school. We lived down the hill from Kijika High School, so it was only a ten minute trek, but the summer heat made it much more of a pain. I was taking my time, so I wouldn’t arrive drenched in sweat.

The high school stood at the top of the hill, with a steep and narrow road leading up, looming over Kijika-machi. Though it wasn’t a scary building or anything, with its bleach-white walls, large windows, and a clock in the center of the facade, there was a sort of…vibe about it. Like it was peeking out of the woods to look at the town. The way that clock poked out from the trees surrounding it, gazing out like a giant cyclops eye. The old shrine across the street, hidden in a grove. The amount of verdant green surrounding the hill always reminded me of something from a Ghibli movie, especially in the summer.

With that in mind, I take out my notebook and write the idea down:

A school in a magic forest. <— Spirits? Demons?

I scribble thoughts down, like if that includes yokai lurking around, or kami from the nearby shrine, or what role the shrine could play — the idea of a school that doubles as a shrine comes to me. I began writing the story once I got to my seat in homeroom, classroom 2-B.

The first sentence, then the next, and the next. Then, I erase them. I try again, and erase again. Then again, and again. I give a groan, and drop my head down on my desk.

Nothing I wrote was any good. Not this idea, not the story I submitted to the contest, not those two other stories.

I can’t help but picture some faceless person laughing while reading my manuscript, calling others, the members of this “Tohoku Young Writers Team,” to look and laugh at what I wrote.

“Probably written by some dumb kid,” one would say.

“Did he get his sister to give him the title? What a loser!”

What did Mr. Sasaki think when he read it? He probably told all the teachers in the faculty office, all of them getting a big laugh out of it, laughing like the kids in his junior high school class when he wrote that poem to Ayami.

I wanted to puke.

The seat in front of me scrapes on the floor.

“Hey, Sota! You’re here early.” Kaito, my closest friend. He also comes to school an hour early to run on the track, though today it looks like he skipped that. He’s in his gym uniform, like he wears every day. We all have the same shirt, white with a vertical green line running from the left shoulder, and the name on the left breast: KIJIKA.

He pats my shoulder.

I look up at him, giving him a look. “Momoka’ll be mad that you’re in her seat again.”

“Pffft. She’s always mad in the mornings,” Kaito says. He’s lanky, a bit taller than me, with hair that’s cut very short. He looks at my notebook. “A new story? Hey, did you ever hear back from that contest?”

I close my notebook. “I need to pee,” I tell him, and I leave before he can say anything, taking refuge in the boy’s stall. I just sit there, head in my hands. It’s not the best place to clear my mind, but at least it’s private. I didn’t mean to be a jerk towards Kaito. He means well, but sometimes I just don’t have the energy to put up with him.

Is that another way I’m a failure? Am I a bad friend?

Thoughts flood my brain, almost chanting “failure failure failure” over and over. I chew my lip.

That’s when I hear it.

The twinkling of keys as someone warms up on the piano in the music room. First, just scales, then arpeggios.

Then, they began to play.

I don’t know how to describe it, other than beautiful, majestic. It fills me with…something. Some feeling I can’t quite describe. A rush in my chest, coming out like a gasp.

The keys rippled like in water, rising, falling, with an occasional chord of higher notes creating a feeling of drifting along on a calm sea, watching stars twinkle one by one in the night sky. That’s the image that fills my head.

I rush out of the stall, and went for the music room, in the next corridor perpendicular to the second grade hall.

The girl sitting at the piano is tall, with her hair tied into a ponytail, and she was wearing thin-rimmed glasses. She was absolutely enthralled with her playing, and it was at that moment, my heart gave a flutter like there was a little moth loose in my chest. She was wonderful.

And she was crying.