Islands AroundSet against the devastation of wartime Tokyo, this tragic love story follows Aiko and Kenji as their dream of opening a bookshop is shattered by a night of fire that tears them apart.
A Small Dream
The first time Kenji saw Aiko, she was standing outside a little printing and bookbinding shop, holding a book with a broken cover.
It was a cold afternoon in February. The sky above Tokyo was grey, and the streets were full of people hurrying home. Aiko wore a dark blue coat and a red scarf. Her black hair was tied back, and a few loose strands moved in the wind.
Kenji was carrying a bundle of printed papers tied with string. When he came out of the shop, he almost walked into her.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Aiko looked up.
“It’s all right. I was just wondering if you could help me.”
She showed him the book. It was an old book of poems, its cover hanging by a few threads.
“Can this be repaired?”
“Yes,” Kenji said. “But it may take a little time.”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
“Then leave it with me.”
She gave him the book and began to walk away.
“What’s your name?” he called.
“Aiko.”
“I’m Kenji.”
She turned and smiled before disappearing into the crowd.
For the next few days, Kenji thought about her more often than he wanted to admit. He worked on the cover slowly, gluing and pressing it, and cleaned the pages as carefully as he could.
When Aiko returned, the book was ready. She opened it and ran her fingers over the paper.
“You did a beautiful job.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
She took a small purse from her pocket, but Kenji shook his head.
“You can pay next time.”
“Next time?”
“If you bring me another book.”
Aiko laughed.
They began to meet after work. Sometimes they walked beside the river. Sometimes they sat in a small tea shop and shared a pot of tea. They spoke about ordinary things, like food, family and the weather, but little by little they began to speak about the future.
The war had changed their lives. Food was becoming harder to find, and everyone worried about the air raids. At night, the sound of aircraft sometimes came from far away. Still, Aiko and Kenji tried to imagine a different life.
One evening, they sat on a low wall near the river. Aiko took a folded piece of paper from her bag.
“Look,” she said.
It was a drawing of a small bookshop. There was a wooden door, a wide window and shelves full of books. A little sign hung above the entrance: The First Page. Beneath the drawing, in her neat handwriting, she had written a sentence.
Every story begins somewhere.
Kenji read the words aloud, then studied the picture.
“Where will it be?”
“Here, perhaps. Somewhere in Tokyo.”
“And how will we pay for it?”
“We’ll save money.”
“And the books?”
“We’ll find them.”
He laughed softly. “You have an answer for everything.”
“Not everything.” She looked at him. “Only the things that matter.”
“One day,” Kenji said, “we’ll open this shop.”
Aiko nodded and folded the paper back into her bag.
“One day.”
The City Under the Sky
By March 1945, Tokyo was a city living with fear.
The war had brought shortages, long working days and constant worry. Many families had already lost their homes or been moved out of crowded districts. People listened for news, but the news rarely brought comfort.
Kenji worked in the printing shop from early morning until evening. The owner had lost two fingers in an accident years before and could no longer work the machines well, so Kenji often ran them alone. Aiko worked as a seamstress. She repaired clothes, sewed plain uniforms and took whatever work she could find.
They did not see each other every day. When they did, they talked about their bookshop. Aiko wanted a window where people could sit and read. Kenji wanted a small table near the door where he could repair books.
“And a place for tea,” Aiko said.
“Of course.”
“And flowers.”
“Flowers cost money.”
“Then we’ll grow them.”
“Inside the shop?”
“Outside.”
Kenji smiled. Their dream was small, but it belonged to them.
One afternoon, Aiko told him that her father had been asking questions about their friendship.
“He thinks I should be more careful,” she said.
“He’s right to worry.”
“He worries about everything. He’s a good man. He just lost my mother, and he’s afraid of losing me too.”
Kenji looked down at his hands. “I know I can’t give you much right now.”
“I didn’t ask you for much.”
“I want to give you a home.”
Aiko touched his sleeve. “Then let’s begin with a promise.”
“What promise?”
“That we won’t stop looking for our future.”
He took her hand.
“I promise.”
The Last Evening
On the evening of 9 March, Kenji finished work later than usual.
The printing shop had received a large order, and he had spent hours setting the pages. When he finally stepped outside, the streets were already dark. He had promised to meet Aiko that evening, and he was already late.
They had agreed to meet on a small street where she often passed on her way home. He hurried the whole way, afraid she would already have gone. But she was waiting beside a wooden fence.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I know.”
“I thought you had forgotten.”
“Never.”
She looked tired. There were dark circles under her eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Just tired.”
They walked together through the narrow streets. Some houses had sandbags beside their doors. Preparing for air raids had become part of ordinary life.
Aiko stopped outside a small shop.
“Do you think we’ll really have our bookshop?”
“Yes.”
“Even after the war?”
“Especially after the war.”
She smiled, but her eyes were sad. “Sometimes I can’t imagine what life will be like.”
“Then imagine the shop.”
“The First Page?”
“The First Page.”
Before they parted, Aiko took the folded drawing from her bag, the same one she had shown him by the river, and held it out to him.
“I want you to keep this.”
“It’s yours.”
“Not anymore.” She turned it over. On the back, she had written a few words.
For Kenji. Our future is waiting.
He put it carefully into the inside pocket of his coat.
“Keep it safe,” she said.
“I will.”
They said goodbye.
The Fire
During the night of 9–10 March 1945, American B-29 bombers attacked Tokyo with incendiary bombs. The raid began shortly after midnight and went on for hours.
Many parts of the city were crowded with wooden houses. Strong winds spread the fires quickly. Streets that had been familiar only hours before became impossible to recognise.
Kenji woke to the sound of aircraft. At first, he lay still, listening. Then came the explosions.
“Kenji!” his mother called from the next room.
He jumped out of bed. His coat was hanging on the hook by the door, and he took it without thinking. He helped his mother into hers, and they ran outside.
People were rushing through the streets. The sky was bright with fire. Some carried children. Others carried bundles of clothes or a few belongings wrapped in cloth. Kenji led his mother towards an area he hoped would be safer, but the wind drove smoke across the road, and sparks fell around them.
“Keep moving!”
They reached a wider street, but flames were already rising from the buildings on both sides. The heat was terrible.
A man fell in front of them. Kenji stopped to help him.
“Please,” the man gasped. “My daughter.”
Kenji looked around, but he could not see the girl. His mother pulled at his sleeve.
“We must go!”
He helped the man to his feet and moved on. The crowd pushed them towards an open area near a river. The air was thick with smoke, and Kenji could hardly breathe.
He thought of Aiko. He imagined her at home, waiting for the raid to end, her father beside her. He wanted to reach her, but the fires had cut off every road he knew.
He called her name once. Then again.
No one could have heard him.
By morning, whole neighbourhoods were gone. People searched through the ashes, calling for family members. Kenji’s mother was alive, though one of her hands was badly burned.
They had lost their home.
And Kenji did not know whether he had lost Aiko.
The Morning After
The morning light showed a city Kenji barely recognised.
Blackened walls stood beside empty streets. Smoke rose from the ruins. The air smelled of ash and burnt wood. People moved slowly, searching for relatives, for water, for a place to rest. Later, estimates would put the number of dead at around one hundred thousand.
Kenji took his mother to a temporary shelter and wrapped her hand in a strip of cloth.
“Stay here,” he told her.
“Where are you going?”
“To find Aiko.”
She looked at him with tired eyes. “Be careful.”
He began with the street where Aiko lived. Where her house had stood, there was almost nothing left. He asked everyone he met whether they had seen a young woman in a dark blue coat and a red scarf. Most people shook their heads. Some were too exhausted to answer.
He went to the school nearest her home, where people had gathered for shelter.
“Have you seen Aiko?” he asked a woman by the door. He described her coat, her face, her voice.
“There are too many people,” the woman said. “I’m sorry.”
He checked crowded rooms and aid stations. He spoke to volunteers and to people with bandaged faces and arms. He asked the same question again and again.
That afternoon, he returned to his mother. She was sitting against a wall, holding a cup of water.
“Did you find her?”
“No.”
His mother said nothing. He sat beside her, but his thoughts stayed in the streets.
He pressed a hand against his coat, where the drawing was.
It was still there.
The Last Page
Aiko and her father had escaped their burning street that night.
They had walked with the crowd through the smoke, much farther than Aiko realised at the time, across a bridge and into a district she hardly knew. Near the school gate, in the crush of the crowd, her father fell, badly injuring his ankle and tearing the skin. Aiko and a stranger helped him to his feet, each taking one of his arms over their shoulders, and supported him as he hopped on one leg to a first-aid station inside the school.
It was not the school near her home. It was one she had never seen before.
The rooms were crowded with the injured. Some lay on blankets. Others sat against the walls, waiting for help. Volunteers brought water and did what they could.
Her father’s ankle was swollen, and the pain grew worse by the hour. He could not put any weight on his leg.
“You need to rest,” he said.
“I’ll rest later.”
“You’ve done enough.”
She tried to smile. “I’m all right.”
But she was not. She had breathed smoke for hours and had had almost nothing to eat or drink. Her throat hurt, and she felt dizzy whenever she stood.
Later, her father was taken to a hospital where he could receive better care. Aiko wanted to go with him, but the volunteers told her that the few available places were needed for those with serious injuries. She had no visible wounds.
Before he left, he took her hand.
“I’ll come back for you.”
She nodded.
“Find Kenji, if you can,” he said. “I was too hard on him.”
Aiko looked away, because her eyes had filled with tears.
“I will.”
After he was gone, she sat near a wall among strangers, many of whom had lost their families. She asked a volunteer whether anyone had come looking for her.
“Not that I know of,” the woman replied.
The volunteer helped her find a place in a room where other survivors were sheltering. Someone gave her a blanket and a little water. Volunteers tried to keep track of those who had been separated from their families, but there were too many people and too few hands to help them all.
She thought of Kenji. She imagined him walking through the streets, calling her name. When she felt a little stronger, she asked the volunteer to write down a message.
Kenji, I am alive. I am at the first-aid station in the school by the canal. Please find me. I am waiting for you.
The volunteer promised to pass it on if anyone came asking.
But those days were chaos. People arrived and left, and there was no reliable way to keep track of everyone. A message could easily be misplaced or lost.
Kenji never received Aiko’s message.
Over the next two days, Aiko grew weaker. Her fever rose, and breathing became painful. A volunteer noticed her worsening condition and tried to find help, but there was little medicine and far too many wounded.
She thought about the bookshop. She pictured the wide window, the shelves, the little table near the door. She imagined Kenji standing beside her, holding a book.
On the third day after the raid, Aiko died.
Her father, in a crowded hospital across the district, died a week later after an infection in his injured leg turned deadly. No one told him about his daughter, and no one thought to tell Kenji about either of them.
The Search
Kenji kept searching.
He went from shelter to shelter, from one first-aid station to the next. He asked volunteers, doctors, anyone who had survived the raid. Sometimes someone remembered a young woman in a red scarf, and each time he followed the lead.
Every lead ended in silence.
He did not know that Aiko had walked all the way across the district. He searched the schools near her home, over and over, while the school where she lay was a long walk away, and it closed within the week. Its patients were sent to other places, and the few lists of names that had been written down were lost in the move.
He asked where her father had gone. No one knew.
There were too many injured people and too many missing names. Records had been burned. Families had been separated without knowing where to look. Kenji began to understand that a person could vanish without leaving a trace.
His mother needed him. She had lost her home and was still recovering from her burns. He had to find food, water and a place to sleep. But whenever he had a free hour, he searched again.
Weeks passed. People cleared the streets and built small shelters. Some returned to where their homes had stood. Others moved away.
Kenji wrote Aiko’s name on scraps of paper and carried them in his pocket. He visited offices where people looked for missing relatives, left his own name and contact details, and asked to be told if anyone found her.
No answer came.
One evening, he took out the drawing. The paper had gone soft at the folds. The lines were simple, but he could still see every part of the little shop: the window, the door, the sign.
He sat for a long time, looking at it.
Then he began to cry, quietly, so that no one nearby would notice.
The Letter
In the weeks that followed, Kenji wrote a letter.
He did not know where to send it, so he left it at an office for missing relatives.
Aiko,
I am still looking for you.
I have searched the places where we used to walk. I have asked everyone I can find.
Do you remember our bookshop? I still have your drawing. I keep it with me every day.
If you can, please come back.
Kenji
No answer came.
In August 1945, Japan announced its surrender. The war was over, but the city was full of people who had lost their homes and their families.
Kenji heard the news in silence. He thought that now, perhaps, he would find her. He visited more offices and asked more questions. He read lists of survivors and lists of the dead.
He found nothing that gave him certainty.
The end of the war, he learned, would not bring back everything it had taken.
The First Page
Years passed, and Tokyo slowly rebuilt itself.
New houses appeared beside empty plots. Shops opened. Trains carried people to work. The city grew louder and busier, as if it were trying to drown out its own memories.
Kenji found work in another printing shop. He worked hard and saved what he could. His mother grew older. She often spoke about their old home, but Kenji rarely spoke about the raid.
He still had the drawing. Sometimes, after work, he took it out and looked at it, and he never stopped wondering whether Aiko had survived.
One spring morning, many years after the bombing, he found a small shop for rent on a quiet street. It had a wide window and a wooden door. The room was empty.
He stood inside and imagined shelves along the walls, books on the tables and a little chair by the window. He could almost hear Aiko laughing.
The next day, he signed the papers.
He built the shelves himself. He painted the door and washed the windows. He found second-hand books and arranged them one by one. It took weeks, but at last the shop was ready.
Above the door, he hung a small sign.
The First Page.
He stood outside and looked up at it. For a moment, he felt that Aiko was standing beside him.
Then the street grew quiet again.
Every Story Begins Somewhere
The bookshop became a peaceful place.
People came to buy books, to read by the window, or to ask Kenji to help them find a story. He repaired old books whenever he could. He liked their worn covers and soft pages. Each one seemed to carry a little piece of someone’s life.
On the wall behind the counter, he hung Aiko’s drawing in a simple frame. The paper had faded, but the sentence beneath the shop was still clear.
Every story begins somewhere.
He had never taken it out of the frame to show anyone the back.
Some customers asked about the drawing.
“Did you make this?”
“No,” Kenji would say. “Someone I loved made it.”
He never said more.
In the evenings, when the shop was empty, he sometimes stood by the window and watched people pass. He thought of the river and the little tea shop, and of a promise he had made on a cold afternoon.
He had kept it, as best he could.
Outside, Tokyo kept growing. Inside, above the quiet counter, the drawing stayed where it was.
The First Page.
Every story begins somewhere.