"Well, here we are," says Mum.
I get out of the car, stretching my arms and legs. The wind hits me hard, and I squint as my loose hair whips across my face. The air smells salty and fresh, like the ocean asked the wind to carry its scent wherever it goes.
Even the scent is different here.
While Mum checks inside Grandma's long-closed inn, I look out toward the sea. Blue stretches over yellow as the tide rolls in and out, again and again. The salty air brushes past me, and seagulls cry overhead, scavenging for scraps the fishermen might've left behind.
Back home in Tokyo, the moment I step outside, the streets are packed. Businessmen in suits, students in uniform, mothers in heels pushing prams—all walking, walking, walking. Faces blank, eyes fixed on their destinations.
But here, I only see tanned skin and smiling faces. Friends helping each other apply sunscreen. Lifeguards warning kids not to run. Young men flexing in a muscle contest. Teenagers burying their friends in sand, laughing, eating, just enjoying.
Everything here is different.
It's so... unnaturally calm.
Uncomfortably calm.
"Ayu-chan! Come on in! I've cut up some fruit!" Grandma calls.
"Alright," I reply, pulling my gaze away from the ocean.
At the door, I turn back one last time, taking in the view I'm stuck with for the rest of my life.
Here in Okinawa.