Yota was born and raised in his little seaside town. He attended the high school perched on a hill just beyond the station, gazing out at the same ocean view every day. The salt breeze and the sound of waves had become part of his very life.
For Yota, a single white migratory bird that appeared at the same time every year was something special. He didn’t recall when he first noticed it, but watching for the bird had become a habit. In late autumn, walking along the seaside promenade, it would perch on a solitary piece of driftwood—as if it, too, eagerly awaited its return to the town.
“You’re back again, huh?”
Yota murmured to himself.
He thought the bird gave a small, narrowed-eyed chirp in response—and he smiled.
But a few days later, something changed. On his way home from school, Yota looked down toward the beach and saw the white bird huddled in the sand.
“You okay?” he called out, hurrying down.
The bird’s wing was bent at an unnatural angle—perhaps it had collided with something or been buffeted by strong winds. Either way, it couldn’t fly in its current condition.
Gingerly, Yota scooped it into his arms, careful not to frighten it. It felt lighter than he expected—and warm.
When he got home, his grandfather glanced up from his newspaper and muttered, “A bird, hm?”
Grandpa had always loved animals and, though he warned against overly meddling with wildlife, he patiently showed Yota how to apply basic first aid. Following his instructions, Yota carefully inspected the injury and gently wrapped the wing.
Days passed, and the bird gradually regained its strength. It drank, pecked at food, and started fluttering its wings again. Watching, Yota felt both joy—and a pang of sadness.
On the day of parting…
That morning, Yota approached to check on it, only to see the bird flapping its wings vigorously. It might be ready to fly once more.
“…Ready to go?”
He lifted it up and gently released it into the air.
The bird spread its wings wide, floated up, faltered for an instant, then caught the wind and soared higher.
“…Take care,” Yota whispered.
The bird circled once—he was certain it looked back at him—and then flew beyond the sea.
Yota kept his gaze lifted, standing still for a long moment.
“Will you come again next year?”
He whispered softly and slipped his hand into his pocket. A gentle sea breeze passed, brushing against his cheek.
