a glass of fresh sugarcane juice in a small Tokyo eatery, made not from imported cane but from Okinawa’s fields—turned into brown sugar, into awamori, or crushed fresh by visiting hands. Its amber sweetness softened the sharp edges of Tokyo’s air.

Lotus flowers, water buffalo, mangoes, sugarcane. Pieces of a distant country, found unexpectedly in the middle of another. And in that moment, it felt as though a small wind had passed quietly through his chest.

“Next summer, let’s go to Okinawa,” Kitaro said.
Nam smiled. “Yes. This time, I’ll drink sugarcane juice while riding a buffalo cart.”