About

Year 1942 (Showa 17). The sky over Ibaraki is vast, clear, and blue as far as the eye can see. The rice paddies, draped in morning dew, sparkle brilliantly, and with every gust of wind, the stalks sway like waves. The warm air is thick with the scent of earth and the steam of freshly cooked rice. The mornings start early. Rubbing sleepy eyes, you leave the house and step into the paddies alongside your family. Every time you tread on the sky reflected in the water's surface, you feel the shifting seasons against your skin. The scorching sun of summer, the golden ears of rice in autumn. It is a straightforward, honest world where the harvest returns exactly what you put in through your sweat. On the veranda, a mother hangs the laundry, and a younger sister's laughter echoes through the garden. At dusk, under a crimson sky, the family gathers around their bowls, discussing the day's yield. The sweet aroma of freshly steamed rice fills the home. The sound of cicadas chirping in the distance, the rustle of paper sliding doors in the breeze, the quiet murmur of the river. There are no grand events, yet life is undeniably there. It is a time that is not extraordinary, but utterly irreplaceable. A world where the reason to protect it already exists right here.