Michiko didn't even bother to chew properly, shoving three massive bites of the burger into her mouth in quick succession. Her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's, and she struggled to gnaw through the thick layers.
Chihara Rinto placed the small cup of cola on the table in front of her, shaking his head with mild exasperation. "Slow down."
This was truly pitiful—she looked like someone freshly released from a refugee camp. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he'd have trouble believing it.
Embarrassed, Michiko turned slightly to one side, shielding her face with her hand as she ate. In Japan, women rarely frequented burger joints; taking large, open-mouthed bites was considered unbecoming. Japanese women were particularly mindful of public perception. Still, the country had its ways of adapting foreign foods—here, they'd removed the buns entirely, serving only the meat patties, which avoided any breach of etiquette.
Chihara returned to his work, flipping through the newspaper for interesting tidbits while Michiko silently devoured the oversized double-decker burger meant for adults. Once finished, she grew even more self-conscious, pulling out a compact mirror to clean up. She wiped away traces of grease and sauce with a tissue, applied some clear lip balm, and then stared blankly at the untouched chicken nuggets. She wanted more but was already full.
After a moment's hesitation, she carefully repackaged the leftovers, tucked them into her desk drawer as emergency rations, and finally glanced toward Chihara. "Master," she murmured softly, "thank you."
Pausing briefly, she added, "What do you want me to do in return?"
Mature beyond her years, Michiko no longer believed that being cared for was an inherent right. She assumed Chihara must have ulterior motives—perhaps he saw potential in her talent and expected future performances as repayment. She wasn't opposed to this arrangement and had mentally prepared herself.
Chihara shot her a sidelong glance, smiling wryly. "I'm not sure if I'm helping or harming you, so I won't ask for anything in return. When you're older, you'll understand. Sometimes suffering can be a blessing. Don't view everything so negatively."
His soft-hearted nature had gotten the better of him again, prompting this indirect guidance. And what he said was true: life demanded sacrifices for success. Someday, when Michiko achieved fame and surpassed her peers, she might look back and appreciate her mother's efforts. The hardships she endured now could one day seem like blessings.
Yet as he finished speaking, he noticed Michiko sitting there, visibly conflicted, her lips parted as though she wanted to say something but couldn't bring herself to. Curious, he asked, "What is it? Speak freely."
Lowering her head slightly, she whispered, "I wanted to wish you fortune as vast as the Eastern Sea… but I thought it might sound disrespectful, so I didn't."
Chihara nodded silently. You're young, but your words carry quite the sting. Yet she managed to show respect for her master simultaneously—a balancing act indeed.
He understood why Michiko resisted her circumstances. Active learning versus forced education were two entirely different beasts. Everyone knew effort improved academic performance, but voluntary effort yielded results, whereas coerced effort often led nowhere—or worse, created psychological scars.
This was none of his business, though, so he refrained from further comment and resumed his work. However, after a moment, Michiko hesitated and spoke again. "Um… Master, could you spare some time to teach me basic writing techniques?"
Chihara looked up, surprised. "You really want to learn?"
She shook her head. "No, but my mom will interrogate me when I get home. I need to know something to tell her." Pulling out Sonata for the Upside-Down Girl, she continued, "Mom takes this seriously. She told me to try completing the script. Do you want to take a look?"
"Oh, let me see," Chihara replied, accepting the manuscript and beginning to read.
He'd left off at the part where the protagonist was suspended upside-down in midair. Michiko had attached a piece of paper to continue the story in simple, direct prose: Yoshino, unable to bear the weight of her burdens, jumped from a building. Mid-air, she explained her reasons. Kuroki, watching below, sincerely congratulated her on finally finding rest and frantically sped up his piano playing. Yoshino landed headfirst onto the pavement.
"Her head hit the concrete with a loud bang, exploding into fragments. With her final act, she played the loudest, most perfect note of her life—a fitting tribute to her parents—and then found eternal peace, free from worries and pain." Michiko had even sketched an accompanying illustration: a stick figure embedded in the ground, surrounded by a pool of crimson blood.
Staring at the vivid splashes of red ink, Chihara struggled for words. After a pause, he said, "This ending has setup, but audiences generally prefer stories where the protagonist is saved or experiences a miracle. While this dark conclusion isn't bad per se, it may not resonate well with viewers. Consider revising it."
Is this little girl actually contemplating revenge against her mother using her own life?
As he spoke, he jotted down feedback to help Michiko report back to her mother. Then, addressing her question about writing techniques, he began rattling off points. "Here's a quick rundown—you can memorize these and recite them to your mom."
Drawing from his pre-transmigration knowledge of Japanese dramas, he summarized decades of TV history. "Audiences are growing tired of preachy, detached storytelling styles. Modern viewers prefer relatable narratives told from ordinary perspectives. As quality expectations rise, genres like workplace dramas, romantic comedies, campus series, medical shows, and detective stories are gaining traction. These trends typically last about ten years before declining, after which live-action adaptations of manga become popular due to similar demands."
Building on that, he outlined structural frameworks suitable for beginners. "Since you're new to scriptwriting, focus on mastering foundational formulas first. For example, a twelve-episode season can follow this structure…"
Engrossed in dual-tasking—scribbling fresh lines for his current project while lecturing casually—he failed to notice Shiraki Keima lurking behind the screen, furiously jotting down every word.
Finally noticing him, Chihara stopped mid-sentence. "Shiraki-kun, what are you doing?"
"I'm sorry, Chihara-sensei! Am I interrupting your lesson?" Shiraki stammered, looking sheepish.
"No, it's fine. But why are you taking notes?"
"To record what you're saying!"
"Why bother? This is basic stuff for beginners. Isn't it obvious?"
"Obvious? I've never heard anyone explain it so clearly—not even my professors. Of course I'm writing it down!"
Chihara smacked his forehead, realizing his mistake. Having witnessed the entire golden decade of Japanese television, he viewed such insights as common sense—the ABCs of screenwriting. But to those living through it now, his observations carried weight.
Hindsight bias worked both ways. Just as critics lambasted intelligence agencies post-9/11 for missing glaring warning signs, hindsight made things seem simpler than they were. Sixty thousand leads amounted to sixty thousand tangled vines before the fact—but afterward? A clear path to the pumpkin.
Catching himself, Chihara felt a pang of guilt for leveraging future knowledge to impress people here. Turning back to Michiko, he said, "That's enough for today. Memorize these points and share them with your mom bit by bit."
Michiko, who'd lost interest midway, nodded obediently. "Yes, Master."
Shiraki still yearned to hear more, but as a lowly assistant, he couldn't request further instruction. Disappointed, he perked up momentarily when Chihara asked if he had any manga lying around.
"I don't, but Horii-san does."
Horii, a clerk at headquarters, was an avid manga enthusiast who often flipped through volumes during lunch breaks.
"Ask if we can borrow one."
"Yes, Chihara-sensei!" Shiraki scurried off, heart heavy with regret. Clearly, Chihara had dismissed him to keep his secrets safe. Such wisdom must be reserved for trusted disciples.
Soon, a borrowed manga arrived. After confirming it wasn't yaoi or adult-themed, Chihara tossed it to Michiko, letting her entertain herself.
Eyes lighting up, Michiko eagerly flipped through the pages. She'd only glimpsed a few comics at school and never owned a full set. Silence fell over the room as both occupants focused on their tasks. Time slipped away unnoticed until six o'clock chimed on Michiko's digital watch.
Snapping out of her reverie, she reluctantly closed the manga, stood, and bowed deeply. "Master, I should go. Thank you so much. These past two hours have been the most relaxing I've had in ages."
Chihara chuckled. "Remember that feeling. One day, don't blame me for it."
"I won't. Without moments like this, I doubt I'd make it far enough to blame anyone."
"Go on, then."
With another bow, Michiko departed, her steps noticeably lighter. Watching her leave, Chihara sighed, unsure whether his intervention was helpful or harmful. Was kindness misplaced in the cutthroat world of entertainment?
---
Days rolled into weeks. Each day, Chihara observed filming, studied the production bureau's operations, and diligently wrote scripts. In the afternoons, he spent five minutes giving Michiko impromptu lessons, equipping her to placate her mother, then left her to amuse herself. The girl remained quiet and content, asking nothing more than a subtle hint about cola once—which Chihara ignored.
Then came New Year's break. The crew rested for two days, leaving Chihara to spend a lonely holiday without even dumplings to comfort him. By January 1995, the premiere date for Tales of the Unusual loomed near.
TL: The phrase "福如东海" (may your good fortune be as vast as the Eastern Sea) is often used together with "寿比南山" (may your life be as long as the Southern Mountain). Together, they form a very traditional birthday or blessing greeting, especially for elders. Saying that to a young person can be considered as a mockery.