My name is Kim Isakawa.
I was born into what people would call a middle-class family. Nothing special, nothing lacking. A house large enough for comfort, small enough to feel warm.
My mother died giving birth to me.
I don't remember her face, and because of that, I never felt the kind of loneliness people talk about. My father always had a smile—gentle, constant, as if it were carved into him. My elder sister stood beside him, seven years older than me, acting more like a second parent than a sibling.
For a long time, I thought we were a happy family.
That illusion ended the year I was about to enter high school.
My father suffered from an incurable heart disease. Even then, he smiled. Only later did I realize it wasn't because he wasn't in pain—but because he didn't want us to see it.
He passed away quietly.
That was the first time I felt true sadness.
My sister gave up her college education and began working as a salesman to support us. I didn't argue. I couldn't. Instead, I made a decision of my own-
'I will protect what is left.'