Alioth
patreon
I just want to quietly draw manga Chapter 123
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 18:24:03 +0000 UTCThe opening scene left many viewers puzzled.
Meiko Honma—the silver-haired girl from the trailer—appeared suddenly in Jinta Yadomi’s room. Yet Jinta, absorbed in his game, barely reacted.
Their brief exchange ended with a shift in Jinta’s expression. His popsicle stick fell to the floor, but he said nothing. Instead, he got up and went to boil some noodles.
Things only grew stranger.
Jinta’s father entered the room. Meiko stood there, clearly visible—yet he didn’t even glance her way, as if she wasn’t there at all.
Later, Jinta met up with Nitta, another childhood friend. Along the way, the story introduced the rest of their group: Naruko Anjo, still clearly harboring feelings for Jinta; Yukiatsu, who masked his pain behind sarcasm; and Tsuruko, quiet but observant.
But none of them could see Meiko.
She followed Jinta silently, unseen by anyone else.
Some viewers were confused. Others, intrigued. Then the story confirmed what many had begun to suspect.
A flashback showed Meiko returning home alone. At dinner, her younger brother muttered, “Why am I still serving her curry? She’s dead. She shouldn’t need it.”
“Don’t say that…” their mother whispered, her eyes fixed on Meiko’s photo. “Maybe she’s just lost. Maybe she doesn’t even realize she’s gone yet.”
The truth hit hard.
Meiko had died years ago.
Only Jinta could see her.
Her soft voice lingered:
“I didn’t know you could still cry after you died…”
For many, something tightened inside.
If she knew she was gone... why was she still smiling like that?
The episode then shifted to Jinta’s childhood. Their friends had teased him relentlessly:
“Jinta likes Meiko! Jinta likes Meiko!”
Flustered, he shouted back:
“Who’d like someone like her? She’s just a monster!”
And ran away.
The next day, Meiko drowned.
Streaming comments poured in:
“Wow… this guy’s terrible.”
“He clearly cared. Why couldn’t he just say it?”
“How do you live with that regret?”
Before her death, Meiko had been rejected by the one she loved most.
Now, years later, she had returned—gentle, warm, smiling.
Meanwhile, the others had become shadows of their former selves. Jinta had withdrawn from the world; the group had drifted apart, each carrying silent guilt. Meiko, still childlike, embodied the kindness and clarity they’d all lost.
The episode closed quietly. Jinta sat alone in the dark, boiling instant noodles.
He told himself she wasn’t real. Just a hallucination.
But when Meiko appeared again—and then vanished—he couldn’t ignore the feelings swelling inside.
He ran out the door.
He had to find her.
A soft song began.
Though the dialogue had been in Japanese, the sudden transition to a lyrical insert felt seamless. Onscreen, the lyrics appeared:
君と夏の終わり
Future dream
大きな想い出 忘れない...
"The end of summer with you...
A future dream...
I’ll never forget these precious memories..."
As the music played, Jinta sprinted to their childhood secret base—the Super Peace Busters.
There, he found Poppo, the last member of their group.
...
The episode’s ending rippled through online forums.
“This show’s special.”
“I’m more into Oathbound, but this one’s got heart.”
“Not sure about the plot yet, but Meiko’s my favorite.”
“She’s so kind… even after death.”
“Is she really a ghost? Or just in his head?”
“No way. Did you see when she bumped the table? The cup moved.”
“What’s the ED song? That hit deep.”
“Credits say it’s ‘secret base (Kimi ga Kureta Mono),’ lyrics by Saisei, sung by Kaoru Ohashi. Amazing!”
“Who’s Saisei?”
“And Meiko’s voice actress? Never heard of her.”
“Ryuko Mei. Newcomer.”
Opinions varied, but the overall feeling was positive. Even those unsure about the plot admitted the emotional beats landed.
Few planned to drop the show. Most were eager to see more.
Director Kazuya watched the reactions online and finally exhaled.
He’d worried the first episode might feel too abstract, that audiences would walk away confused or indifferent.
But the response exceeded expectations.
If 60 points was the pass line, Anohana scored a solid 70—maybe more.
...
One week later, the numbers arrived.
Two million views. Seventh among February anime premieres.
And on Nexari’s rating board? A strong 9.1.
Not groundbreaking for Kazanami Animation Studio, but solid.
To most, it looked like a mid-tier success.
But Kazuya knew better.
He believed Anohana’s true impact was yet to come—especially the ending.
If one episode could spark this much interest, episode eleven could push it to the season’s top.
Still, he didn’t take all the credit.
Scrolling through viewer comments, one thing was clear: Meiko’s voice and the moving ED song were the show’s emotional heart.
Both were tied to Mizushiro.
From script to casting, pacing to emotional tone—Mizushiro had shaped every core element. Even the ED came from one of his close friends.
He wasn’t just the screenwriter.
He was the story’s heart.
---
For Kazuya, the first episode of Anohana had exceeded all expectations.
But among the Tokyo insiders watching Haruki closely—waiting for him to falter—it felt disappointing.
To them, Anohana was… underwhelming.
The anime had launched at seventh out of twenty-two new titles that season. It wasn’t a failure, but it didn’t shake the industry either.
And given Mizushiro’s growing reputation, expectations had been high.
In comparison, Anohana’s opening seemed modest.
Yes, it was only the beginning. Many shows took time to find their stride. But the industry wasn’t known for patience. A seventh-place start rarely inspired confidence.
Still, those more familiar with Mizushiro’s style knew better than to make snap judgments. His stories often built momentum slowly, favoring emotional resonance over instant spectacle.
The media, however, wasn’t interested in nuance.
Headlines pushed the narrative fast:
“Mizushiro’s Anohana stumbles out of the gate.”
“From rising star to shaky start—can Mizushiro deliver?”
“Kazuya Mori’s bet on Mizushiro faces early turbulence.”
Haruki might have ignored it all—if it hadn’t landed in every feed, every mention, every article.
Reading through them, he couldn’t help but chuckle.
The tone made it sound like a complete disaster. But seventh place wasn’t a disaster. Especially not in a season packed with big-name titles and aggressive marketing.
Plenty of respected creators were behind shows ranked below—and they weren’t being dragged through the mud.
The real issue wasn’t the ranking. It was the expectations. People wanted a breakout hit, something loud and immediate.
And Mizushiro hadn’t given them that.
Even Kiyoshi got pulled into it. At a press event, someone asked him for thoughts on Anohana. His response was polite but distant:
“Anohana? I haven’t seen it yet.”
A short clip, but it spread fast.
Some used it to imply Kiyoshi didn’t see Haruki as competition. Others saw it for what it was—an industry veteran sidestepping media bait.
Regardless, the narrative spun.
Mizushiro’s followers tried to counter, but the reality was simple: Anohana hadn’t made a splash. Not yet.
Haruki, for his part, remained composed.
He agreed with Kazuya: the first episode had done its job. The pacing was intentional. To celebrate, he invited Haruka, Kenta, and Naoya over for a hot pot night.
None of them were drinkers, which suited Haruki just fine.
Steam fogged the windows as the broth bubbled.
Haruka, sipping water, finally broke the silence.
“You’re not going to say anything about the chatter online?”
Haruki leaned back. “What would that even do? People will say what they want. I’d rather let the work speak.”
Naoya raised an eyebrow. “So you’re just… waiting?”
Haruki’s grin was calm. “Waiting for the wind to change.”
He picked up a piece of sushi. “When Anohana climbs from seventh to first, staying quiet now will be worth more than shouting a thousand words.”
Kenta gave a skeptical look. “You think it can reach the top?”
“I think it can surprise people,” Haruki replied. “Top spot? Who knows. But this kind of story builds over time. It doesn’t shout— it lingers.”
Haruka, who had read the scripts, didn’t make predictions. But she nodded. Seventh place wasn’t the finish line.
They wrapped up the night quietly, laughter replacing any tension. Outside, the noise continued. But inside, the mood was calm.
And then, the second episode aired.
This one focused on Jinta’s encounter with Poppo—a cheerful classmate who genuinely believed Meiko’s spirit had returned. Together, they began tracing her wish, unsure if it was something grand or something small and silly—like a lost toy from a capsule machine.
Bit by bit, the group of childhood friends began to re-form—awkward, unsure, but trying.
There was Yukiatsu, closed off and distant. Tsuruko, sharp and guarded. Poppo, ever-loyal. And Naruko, hiding complicated feelings behind casual remarks.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.
But it was heartfelt.
No major twists—just the soft ache of old friendships being tested.
As the ending theme rolled, something shifted.
Online comments reflected a more thoughtful response:
“Still quiet… but there’s definitely something building here.”
“Pacing’s kinda slow, but it feels really genuine.”
“Didn’t expect that capsule toy moment to hit me like that.”
“Feels like they’re setting up for something emotional—can’t explain it, just a vibe.”
“Giving it the three-episode rule… but yeah, I’m in.”
It wasn’t a viral hit. But it had planted something.
A seed.
And sometimes, those bloom the brightest.
