The plane touched down with a soft jolt, and Miyako's stomach tightened.
Through the small oval window, she saw New York City for the first time — endless buildings, yellow taxis crawling like ants, and a sky that felt much bigger than Tokyo's.
Her father smiled beside her. "Welcome to your new home, Miyako."
She tried to smile back, but her lips only managed a faint curve.
Outside the airport, everything moved so fast. People hurried past, dragging suitcases and speaking in languages she couldn't fully understand. The signs were all in English, bright and sharp, and the air smelled like something foreign — coffee, rain, and the faint tang of city smoke.
Their new apartment was small but high up, with a window that looked out over gray rooftops. Her mother tried to sound cheerful as she unpacked boxes. "We'll make this place feel like home soon."
But to Miyako, it didn't feel like home. It felt like an unfinished drawing — lines without color, a world she couldn't fill in.
---
A week later
At her new school, everything was louder. The hallways were wide and crowded, filled with voices that blended into a language she still struggled to follow.
She sat at the back of her first English class, clutching her notebook. The teacher, Mrs. Williams, smiled warmly but spoke too quickly. Miyako caught a few words — essay, weekend, presentation — and her heart sank.
During lunch, she sat alone by the window, sketching in her notebook. Her pencil moved softly, drawing Tokyo's narrow streets — lanterns, bicycles, the old bookstore she used to visit. She missed the smell of ink and rice paper, the soft hum of cicadas.
A group of students passed by, laughing. One of them glanced at her drawing and said something she didn't catch. When she looked up, they were already gone.
She sighed. It's so different here… every place, every corner feels strange.
That night, she sat by her apartment window, sketching the skyline — tall and cold, glowing under the moon. But when she looked closer, she noticed something.
Even in the distance, some windows were lit with warm light, like small pieces of home.
Maybe, she thought, she could draw this city too — not as a stranger, but as someone trying to understand it.
So, on a blank page, she wrote the title of her new story idea:
> "Two Worlds, One Dream."