The snow had thinned considerably this morning. Patches of white, like stubborn ghosts, still clung to the shaded corners of the street, but the wind had lost its bite. Instead, it carried a soft, damp smell—the quiet, clean scent of earth thawing beneath a shy but determined sun. If nothing else, today marked the true end of winter.
I was halfway through the orphanage gate, the familiar, weary creak of its hinges echoing behind me, when I adjusted the backpack slung awkwardly across my shoulders. It was a large, insulated catering pack, the kind usually carried by adult couriers with motorbikes. I had to reach over my shoulder just to tug the industrial-grade zipper halfway shut again, the metal cold against my fingertips.
From a distance, I probably looked like a walking delivery box with legs. The pack was almost as big as me—no exaggeration. Its sheer bulk forced me to lean forward slightly as I walked, a constant, low-grade battle against its unwieldy center of gravity.
Still, I made it back in one piece. The lunch run for the Friday office block was done. Objective complete.
The trays had been taken almost the moment I arrived. The receptionist hadn't even given me time to fully announce my purpose before a small team rushed out to greet me, their faces beaming with anticipation. Hopefully, the food still tasted good after my run across town. My calculations suggested the temperature loss was minimal, but customer satisfaction was a variable that logic alone could not predict.
If they were happy, then so was I.
This catering route, after all, was more than just a part-time chore. It was the orphanage's lifeline.
Not many donations came in these days. Envelope gifts were unpredictable—sometimes generous, sometimes empty, and often delayed for processing. They were an unreliable resource. But cooking meals and delivering them on time? That paid real money. Steady, week to week. Enough to keep the pantry stocked with more than just bulk rice and the lights on through another cold month. It was a tangible, dependable operation.
I turned to head toward the kitchen, my primary objective being to return the equipment. The pack's straps were beginning to cut into my shoulders, a dull ache that I registered but did not feel the need to complain about.
And then I heard her.
"Ko-chaaaan!!"
She called me out. Yes, Ko-chan, from Copenhagen. Yes, the same word as the capital of a certain Nordic country. It was the name I was born with, the name that came to me as naturally as breathing. When people asked my name, I knew I was Copenhagen. That was what we, every Umamusume, had—the name that was imprinted upon our soul, the name that was said to be carried over from another universe, a whisper of a life lived before.
The voice continued to crack through the hallway like a starting bell, sharp and full of a strange, high-pitched energy.
I turned.
The Director was sprinting—sprinting, of all things—toward me from the main building. Her apron was askew, and she was waving a letter so wildly that the paper threatened to break free from her grip and take flight.
I didn't even need to look closely to recognize it.
A white envelope, thick and stately, trimmed in gold, and sealed with a gleaming 'T' insignia.
Tracen Academy.
I froze on the spot. My feet felt as if they'd been nailed to the pavement.
No mistaking it. That letter could only mean one thing.
The results.
The admissions results.
My heart, usually a steady and reliable rhythm, executed a maneuver that was not in any medical textbook. It felt like it flipped sideways.
A few weeks ago, I'd taken the entrance exam for Central Tracen Academy, the most prestigious Umamusume racing academy in the entire Japan. The written portion had been brutal, a marathon of logic puzzles and academic theory. The physical test was worse, pushing my body to limits I hadn't known I possessed. And the final interview had nearly knocked the wind from me.
Not because it was hard—but because of who was in that room.
The President of Central Tracen Academy herself, Akikawa Yayoi, her small frame radiating an aura of absolute authority.
And Tazuna Hayakawa, Tracen's smiling face. Secretary to the school's president.
It still felt like a dream that I'd spoken to them face-to-face. I could recall every moment of that interview with perfect clarity: the polished mahogany of the long table, the intimidating softness of the velvet seat, the faint, dignified aroma of black tea in the air. My answers had been honest, direct, perhaps even blunt. I had no idea if that was what they wanted.
The Director reached me at last, her cheeks flushed a bright pink and her breath coming in quick, shallow pants.
She grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong, tugging me into the living room. "Come—come sit here! I can't do this standing. I'm more nervous than you, Ko-chan, seriously! Look at this—my hands won't stop shaking!"
I sat obediently on the sun-warmed sofa, its floral pattern faded from years of use. My limbs were stiff from the run, but right now, I barely noticed the protest from my muscles.
The Director stood in front of me, the letter trembling in her grip like a leaf in a storm. Her lips twitched between a grin and something close to panic. She had grown up in this orphanage. Lived here her whole life. When the old caretaker retired, she took over without a second thought. She always said she didn't need a family of her own—because this place was her home, and the kids inside it were more precious to her than anything in the world.
She wasn't just our guardian.
She was family. My family.
She pressed the envelope into my hands. Her fingers were cold. "Go on."
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "Alright… here goes nothing," I muttered, trying to keep my own fingers steady as they fumbled with the flap.
The seal cracked with a soft, definitive tear.
I unfolded the letter carefully. The paper was heavy, cream-colored, and felt impossibly important.
My eyes scanned the elegant script. One glance. Two. I was merely processing the shapes of the letters.
A third pass, just to be sure I wasn't misreading. My brain finally began to assemble the words into a coherent message.
On the fourth—
"Well?! What does it say, Ko-chan?!" the Director asked, her voice nearly cracking under the strain of waiting.
I looked up, my expression one of utter, blank shock.
"A…"
"A…?" she prompted, leaning closer.
"A—ACCEPTED!!"
The word exploded from me. I launched myself from the sofa before my brain could fully catch up with my body. A triumphant joy I couldn't explain surged through me, seizing control of my tongue and my limbs.
"It is done! Madam Director, I have passed! I have been accepted!" I cried out, my voice soaring with a joy that broke through my usual composure.
It was not the most graceful celebration. My feet left the floor as I pulled her into a full, bone-crushing hug, lifting her clean off the ground in a burst of sheer, unadulterated elation.
She let out a startled squeak—and then promptly went limp.
Fainted.
Right there in my arms.
"…Oops."
The scene froze in time. Me, standing like a startled statue in the middle of the living room, the Director sagging against me like a large, warm sack of flour.
"Uhh… Madam?"
My triumphant charge came to an immediate halt. I gently lowered her onto the couch, my mind shifting from celebratory elation to immediate damage control. I began fanning her face with the acceptance letter, the very document that had caused this predicament.
It took about half a minute of frantic fanning before she stirred.
"Agh… Ko-chan… you gave me a heart attack…" she groaned, her eyes fluttering open to stare dazedly at the ceiling.
"My sincerest apologies. I may have… overreacted."
"No, no, it's alright…" she pushed herself up into a sitting position, a weak smile on her face. "'It is done', huh? I was also almost done because of you."
"Ahem. my apologies," I confirmed, my cheeks growing warm.
She chuckled, a soft, wheezing sound. "Ko-chan, you're something else."
Truth be told, I didn't try to speak that way. It simply came out. Ever since I was small, I found myself drawn to the cadence of old books—ancient letters, the weathered journals of travelers and soldiers from centuries past. Something about the weight of that language… it suited me. It felt more correct, more me, than the casual slang of my peers.
I wasn't trying to sound special. That was simply how I spoke. Even if it earned me strange looks from the other children now and then.
The Director reached over and gently tousled the distinct white lick of hair on my forehead. "You worked so hard for this. I'm so proud of you."
Her voice was quiet, but it was full. It carried more weight than any formal praise.
I nodded, unable to form a response right away. Not the normal ones, anyway.
"My stature may be slight, but my resolve is not. With this, my campaign can finally begin."
"…You mean, your dream is finally starting," she translated, her smile widening.
I nodded again, a small, definite motion.
Yes. That's what I meant.
My heart pounded, not with nerves now, but with purpose. A steady, powerful drumbeat for a march that was about to begin.
I would be leaving this place soon. Off to Central Tracen. Where only the most promising of us Umamusume were allowed to train. Where students rose—or fell—on the strength of their legs, their hearts, and their will to shine on the track. I'd be racing alongside prodigies, champions, the daughters of legends. I… was a nobody, a self-taught runner from a rundown orphanage at the edge of town.
But I was going. I was going anyway.
The Director straightened herself, still a bit pale but with a new light in her eyes. "You're going to need new shoes."
"Indeed," I murmured, looking down at my worn-out trainers. "Their term of service is complete."
"We'll figure it out. And maybe we can afford a proper suitcase this time."
"A proper case is not a necessity. I will manage with what is available."
"Or," she said with a playful roll of her eyes, "you could just use a backpack like a normal student?"
"Might as well?"
We both laughed at that, a shared, easy sound that filled the quiet room.
The afternoon sun had crept across the floor, catching the letter's golden seal in its light. It gleamed like a medal, a promise.
Even as my fingers traced its embossed edges, I knew—this was just the beginning.
---
The city lights smeared into long, hypnotic ribbons against the bus window. Each streak of neon and gold represented a life, a story, a destination completely separate from my own. I stared at my reflection in the glass beside me, a pale and stern-looking girl superimposed over the fleeting urban landscape.
My long, straight black hair fell like a curtain around my face, with the stark white lock of hair on my bangs standing out like a painted sigil. My pupils, which held a faint sheen of gold, reflecting the city lights without a hint of my own thoughts. Like other Umamusume, I suppose I had what people would call a pleasing appearance, though I had never given it much thought. It was simply the face I was issued, another piece of standard equipment.
My free hand drifted up to the base of my right ear, my fingers tracing the smooth, cool surface of the simple but resilient golden metal ring that circled it. It was my last birthday present. The Director had said she couldn't afford real gold, so she gave me this tungsten one instead, polished and colored to a brilliant golden sheen. I often wondered where she had found it. Was tungsten not also quite expensive? The thought was a familiar, gentle pang of worry for her.
My attention returned to the golden medallion in my palm, which I gently rubbed. With a quiet sigh, I pressed a thumb to the embossed lion in its center. As always, the proud, stoic beast stirred something deep inside me, a faint echo of a feeling I could not name.
This medallion had been a constant in my life, a single, weighty piece of my unknown history. It had been with me for as long as I could remember. According to the Director, it was the only thing of value left behind by my parents. They had passed away in a traffic accident when I was very young. With no known relatives to take me in, a friend of theirs, a person whose name and face were lost to time, had brought me to the orphanage.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn, I wondered about them. Who were they? Where did I come from? What legacy, if any, did they leave behind besides myself and this piece of metal? But the questions were like ghosts. They had no substance, and chasing them led only to empty rooms. Life in the orphanage had been warm and full of purpose. The Director and the other children were my family now. That was a tangible fact. That was enough.
As the bus swayed with the movement of the road, I turned the medallion over in my hand again. It was heavy for its size, the gold burnished with age. Later, through my own research in the local library, I had found out what it was. It was called the Peninsular Gold Cross, a British military decoration awarded to senior officers for their service during the Peninsular War, more than two centuries ago.
The discovery had only deepened the mystery. Were my ancestors British? Or perhaps my parents had been collectors of rare historical artifacts? I wasn't sure. The answers had always been just out of reach, like words on the tip of my tongue. It was a fact of my existence I had simply learned to accept, another variable in an equation with no solution.
The bus shuddered to a halt, the hiss of its air brakes pulling me from my thoughts. A synthesized voice announced the stop, and the display screen above the door flashed with the characters for 'Tracen Academy Main Gate'.
Time to go. My objective was at hand.
I grabbed the handle of my single, well-worn second hand suitcase and stepped off the bus. The cool evening air met my face, carrying with it the faint scent of manicured grass and damp earth. The bus pulled away with another sigh of its brakes, leaving me in a sudden, profound quiet. I stood alone before the gates of Central Tracen Academy.
Even from the outside, the sheer scale of the campus was staggering. The gates were monolithic, wrought iron structures easily twice my height, flanked by imposing stone walls that stretched further than I could see in either direction. Beyond them, elegant spires and the roofs of grand, sprawling buildings pierced the darkening sky. To think such an enormous academy existed right in the Tokyo Metropolitan area. It seemed impossible. But this was the most prestigious Umamusume school in the country, and with horse racing being a national pastime, a spectacle of immense public and private interest, I supposed nothing less would do. This was the fortress I had assigned to.
"My snack stroll at the airport took way too long," I muttered to myself, a rare admission of a tactical error. I glanced at the sky. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the clouds in shades of deep orange and purple. "I did not notice it was already setting."
Time to get moving. Delays on arrival were unacceptable.
I pulled the acceptance letter from my coat pocket, its crisp paper a comforting, familiar presence. I checked the office location listed inside for new students. Main Administration Building, Room 104.
Just as I started toward the main building, my suitcase rolling steadily behind me, I heard voices from across the street.
Two girls stood chatting by the corner, bathed in the warm glow of a streetlamp. One was wearing a striking red and white Tracen tracksuit, her long orange hair flowed down gracefully. The other, dressed in the Tracen purple uniform, had an air of energy about her. I only glanced briefly, not wanting to stare, but the girl in the uniform looked awfully familiar.
My mind quickly accessed recent memories. The airport. Earlier today. A crowd had formed near the automated ticket gates for the train into the city. A small commotion. Ah, yes. That's where I had seen her.
"Oh," I murmured under my breath. "That's the girl who was stuck at the airport automatic gate earlier."
I recalled the scene with clarity. She had been trying to get through but it seemed she didn't know how to operate the automatic gate, and the sensors had repeatedly failed to register her ticket, causing the gates to snap shut in front of her with a comical thwack. She had looked more flustered and embarrassed than anything else. An interesting data point, but it was irrelevant to my current mission.
I gave a small, dismissive shrug and continued on my way, my focus returning to the path ahead. My suitcase rolled behind me, its wheels making a steady, rhythmic sound against the pavement. It was the sound of progress. The sound of arrival.