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Rebirth in the Land of the Rising Sun

Penulis: FaccoN

Bab 1: Past Present

My name is Leonardo Nakamura, but that, perhaps, doesn't matter much now. At least not anymore. The truth is, looking back, my life was always somewhat simple. I grew up in the countryside of São Paulo, on a farm that had belonged to my family for two generations. It was the kind of place where time passed slowly, where the sun seemed to rise and set only for our sugarcane and corn fields. That piece of land was always my world, at least until fate decided it had different plans for me.

My grandparents came from Japan in the early 20th century, part of that huge wave of immigrants who left everything behind in search of a better life in Brazil. And they found it, in a way. My grandfather used to tell stories about Japan. Stories that fascinated me, made me dream of a place I had never known, but that somehow felt closer than anything else. The ancient myths, the samurai, the temples, everything seemed magical when he spoke. It was as if he was revealing a world to me that I belonged to, even though I had never set foot there.

I grew up hearing these stories and working in the fields. My parents, always tireless workers, were the heart of the farm. They taught me to plant, to take care of the land and the animals. The routine was simple, wake up early, get your hands dirty with the soil, come home exhausted but satisfied. The smell of strong coffee in the kitchen in the morning mixed with the gentle breeze of the countryside, those are the memories that remain most vivid in me.

When I turned 18, my parents insisted that I study. It was their dream, to see their only son graduate, having a future away from the hardships of the field. And I don't blame them for that. Part of me also wanted something more. So, I moved forward and went to study History. It wasn't an obvious choice, not what my parents expected. They thought I should pursue something more attractive like medicine. But I wanted to understand more about the world my grandfather told me about. I wanted to dive into history, not just of Japan, but of all the civilizations that shaped what we are today.

University was a change. The big city was suffocating at times, but there was also a freedom there that I had never experienced before. The books, the discussions with colleagues, the endless libraries, all of it fascinated me. But over time, I realized that what I was studying, though interesting, wouldn't take me very far. Not in practical terms. The salary of a historian in Brazil? It wasn't something I could afford to ignore, especially being the only child of parents already entering their sixties.

That's when reality knocked on the door. My parents needed me. Their health was starting to show signs of wear, and I could no longer afford to stay away. So, I dropped out of History, a decision that broke my heart, but at the time, seemed like the only sensible choice. I traded the History books for something more practical, something I could use on our farm, Agricultural Engineering. After all, the land was what sustained our family, and if I could learn to make it more productive, that meant more security for all of us.

The next five years were a whirlwind. Back in São Paulo, but this time focused on something that made sense in the context of my life. I won't lie, it was hard. Agricultural Engineering was a constant challenge, but I kept in mind what motivated me. It wasn't about me, it was about my parents, about our farm. So, I graduated and returned home, ready to start a new phase.

At first, it seemed like everything was falling into place. I started working on neighboring farms, applying what I had learned. The money was good, my parents were happy to have me around, and I was doing something that really mattered. But there was a restlessness inside me. It was hard to ignore the void left by the dreams I had abandoned. That passion for history, for distant lands, and for the tales of Japan that my grandfather so loved, it was still there, dormant, but alive.

My mother always joked about the fact that I hadn't married. "When am I going to have a grandchild, Leonardo?" she would ask, laughing. "I'm getting old!" I would smile, but deep down, I felt like something was missing. I was dedicated to work, to family, but what about my own desires? I had been putting my life on hold for so long that I started to wonder if one day it would be too late.

That's when it happened. I was sorting through some things at my parents' house and found an old photo of my grandfather, from when he was still young. The image, yellowed with time, showed him along with my parents and my grandmother on the farm. That photo hit me in a way I didn't expect. Suddenly, everything I had been ignoring, my dreams, my desires, it all came back with overwhelming force. It was as if my grandfather was calling me to tell another story.

I decided it was time to give myself a break. My parents insisted that I take a vacation, and I agreed. But it wouldn't be an ordinary vacation. I would go to Japan for the first time. I would see with my own eyes the place that had been described to me so many times in my grandfather's stories.

Arriving in Japan was surreal. Tokyo was everything I imagined and more. The modernity, the lights, the vibrant life, everything contrasted with the peaceful landscapes of the São Paulo countryside, but at the same time, there was something familiar. Something that connected me to that place. I spent days exploring the city, getting lost in the streets, tasting food I never imagined existed. But my journey was just beginning.

I decided to take a train to the countryside. I wanted to see the more traditional side of Japan, the ancient temples, the small villages, the fields that reminded me of my childhood on the farm. It was in one of those small, quiet towns that I found a temple. It was old, surrounded by huge trees, with a staircase that seemed endless. I climbed those stairs, my heart pounding in my chest. Something inside me told me I was in the right place, that this was more than just a tourist visit. I reached the top, said a simple, silent prayer, asking for peace, for clarity. But fate, it seems, had other plans.

As I started descending the stairs, I felt my foot slip. I tried to hold on, but it was too late. My body was thrown forward, rolling down the stone steps. The pain was intense at first, but then, silence. Darkness took over. I couldn't feel anything anymore. I only thought of my parents, of what would become of them without me. "Sorry, mom," was the last thought I had before everything went black.

And then, the impossible happened.

The deep silence stretched on, and for a moment, I felt as if I were floating in an endless void. It was as if my body had disappeared, and all that remained was my mind, trapped somewhere between life and death. I didn't know what was happening, I didn't understand if I was still falling or if I had already reached the bottom of that abyss.

"Am I dead?" I thought. That question sounded cold, distant, as if it were someone else asking it. I felt disconnected from everything. There was no pain, no fear, just a sense of tranquility, as if nothing else mattered. And then, suddenly, something started to change.

The darkness, once total and impenetrable, began to give way. At first, it was a faint feeling of pressure, as if the air around me was becoming dense, tight. I tried to move my body, but it was in vain. Something was enveloping me, squeezing me.

"Is this it? The end?" the question hovered in my mind, but it soon dissipated because the truth was much stranger. The sensation of pressure around my body increased. Everything seemed warm, humid, and alive? There was movement around me, a rhythmic pulse that surrounded me more and more clearly. A strange understanding began to form in my mind, but I didn't want to believe it.

"This can't be true..." I thought, trying to ignore what was already beginning to seem obvious. But then, I felt the pressure increase even more, the environment around me stirring, and finally, after what felt like an eternity, I was thrown toward the brightest light I had ever seen. It was almost blinding, piercing the void that surrounded me. I could barely keep my eyes closed. When my eyes finally adjusted, the reality I didn't want to accept became true.

I had been reborn.

It took me a while to process what was happening. The first thing that caught my attention was the feeling of cold air touching my skin. I was lying down, wrapped in soft cloths, and around me, muffled voices spoke in a language I knew all too well, Japanese. I tried to open my eyes, but they felt heavy, as if I didn't yet have full control over my body. But the sound of those voices was clear. "It's a boy," said one of them, in an elated tone. "A healthy boy."

My heart raced. This wasn't possible. I was supposed to be dead. And yet, I was here. Alive. And apparently, starting life again.

The following days were confusing. I was trapped in the body of a newborn, unable to communicate, but my mind, my consciousness, was the same. I could think, remember who I was, what had happened. The first weeks were a whirlwind of sensations, the strong smell of herbs, the soft touch of hands holding me, the sound of the wind swaying the trees outside. I was somewhere isolated, in a large house, surrounded by people who clearly cared for me, but whom I didn't know.

My new family.

With time, I began to understand more about my new reality. The Japan I was reborn into wasn't the modern, vibrant one I had visited shortly before I died. This was a Japan of another era, a country still in transition. The clothes, the buildings, the way people spoke... everything indicated that I was at the end of the 19th century or the beginning of the 20th, a period of great change for Japan. I didn't know exactly what year it was, but I knew it was an era when the country was still opening up to the outside world, trying to balance its ancient traditions with the modernity coming from abroad.

The family I was born into was wealthy. That was evident. The house was a traditional mansion, with large gardens, servants who followed orders, and a sense of discreet luxury, but present in every detail. It didn't take long for me to realize that my new father was an important figure. He was rarely home, always busy with matters I couldn't yet understand, but when he was, his presence was striking. A serious, imposing man, but when he held me, a genuine affection showed through.

My new mother, on the other hand, was always nearby. She was a young woman, beautiful, with long black hair and a gentle, but firm expression. She always treated me with care, as if I were the most precious thing in the world. Sometimes, I saw concern in her eyes, as if she were protecting me from something beyond what I could see.

But what intrigued me the most was the connection I felt with everything around me. Every corner of the house, every tree in the garden, seemed to carry a story, a memory. There was something familiar about it all, as if, in some way, I belonged to this place. And, perhaps, I did. After all, wasn't this what I had always wanted? To return to my roots? To dive into the history of Japan, to live the traditions that had fascinated me so much?