On the southern outskirts of Hanshin, a small residential area called Shinryokuchō nestles against a hill. In the valley's little plain sits an estate that has stood since the Meiji era.
Stone walls and iron railings enclose a broad sweep of level ground. At the main gate, a magnificent crimson torii—masterwork of a late Kōbe craftsman—frames a time-worn, red-oak plaque. In gold-leafed characters it reads: Takeda Horse Farm.
At the end of the private road, the estate's iron gate—once painted violet—has weathered to a mottled black. It stands silent in the hushed forest, listening to the late-summer cicadas.
Clank.
A good-looking boy with shoulder-length hair pushed the dark gate open, yawned lazily, and tossed a tied-up bag of kitchen scraps into the green bin.
From the red mailbox on the left, Takeda Makoto pulled a thick sheaf of envelopes.
'Club's been disbanded a month and the brats still keep writing to complain…'
Grumbling, he threw most of the hate mail into the trash, keeping only letters from die-hard fans asking if the Takeda Club would ever reopen.
'Oh… one from Ritto? A letter from home for Tama?'
He singled out an ordinary envelope, strolled back into the yard, and shut the gate behind him.
At the dining table in the parlour, Tamamo Cross listlessly poked at her lunch. When she heard Makoto enter, her drooping ears snapped upright.
'Torare-na-san, when's my Debut Race?'
Makoto frowned, sat down opposite her, folded his arms, and sighed.
'Finish that lunch like you mean it and we'll talk Debut Race.'
'Eh…?'
Tamamo's face fell; her equine ears drooped again.
'I can't… it tastes awful… impossible…'
Makoto's eyebrow twitched. He rubbed his temples, willing the headache away.
Today was two days after that race. A brief rest followed the gruelling run, but Tamamo's post-race anorexia had the young Trainer at his wits' end.
Yesterday they had gone to Hanshin Tracen Academy to check her stats—see whether a month of hard training had overloaded her body and whether any hidden injuries lingered after the race.
Every marker was healthy—except her weight. Already light to begin with, she had dropped to the edge of danger in just four weeks.
If she lost any more, running could do her serious harm.
Makoto cancelled every gallop on the spot: she would not take a single step until she regained last month's weight.
The cause was simple: relentless training burned energy she refused to replace. The less she ate, the more the scales fell.
The "anorexia" stamped in her file wasn't just for show.
Lunch came from the school canteen; other meals came from Makoto's own shaky grasp of nutrition. Whether cafeteria or Trainer-cooked, the balance might pass but the flavour never did, so the already-reluctant filly ate even less.
Now he needed help; otherwise the whole season would collapse.
Luckily, Makoto knew a veteran nutritionist.
He rose, handed the Ritto letter to Tama, and—reluctantly—headed for the telephone in the corner of the parlour.
If he'd had any choice, Makoto would never have dialled that number.
He punched in the digits he knew by heart.
At last, the woman who had always cared for little Kaya whenever Makoto was too busy would step into the light…
Letter in hoof, Tamamo hurried to a bamboo chair in the garden, took a deep breath, and opened the reply from her family.
Her mother asked if she was happy; younger brothers and sisters poured missing-you onto the page.
Vroooom…
The growl of an engine cut her short. She looked up; a huge red SUV roared into view.
Moments later it stopped at the gate. With a clack the door swung open and a tall, poised woman stepped out. Oversized square sunglasses hid half her face; rose lipstick framed her smile. Impeccably cut hair was pinned into a low chignon; a fitted pantsuit and an evidently expensive handbag completed the look. She produced a key and unlocked the Takeda iron gate.
Who—?
Tamamo stared as the stranger approached.
The woman greeted her as if they were already friends.
'You must be Tamamo Cross—Kaya told me so much about you.'
Tamamo awkwardly shook the offered hand.
'Um… hello, you are…?'
Before she could withdraw it, her hand was caught; the woman lifted her sunglasses with the other.
'Exactly the sweetheart Kaya described. I'm her mother—Takeda Kanae.'
The lovely face behind the shades bore the same big eyes as the siblings.
Tamamo had heard plenty about Makoto's father, but never a word about his mother.
'Aunt Kanae, nice to meet you.'
She nodded, a little dazed.
Kanae narrowed her eyes, drew Tamamo close, and hugged her.
'Being called "aunt" by someone so adorable stings a bit…'
Tamamo's heart skipped: beauty-loving women preferred younger titles. Should she have said "sister"? But that would make her senior to her own Trainer—awkward.
Kanae stroked Tamamo's silky white mane, clearly delighted.
'How about you call me Mama instead?'
'Huh!?'
Tamamo's brain blue-screened; her mouth fell open.
Laughing, Kanae released her and covered her smile.
'Kidding, kidding—too soon maybe. Don't mind me. Is Shōma home?'
Scratching her head, Tamamo pointed toward the parlour.
'Trainer's inside.'
Watching Kanae's back disappear through the door, Tamamo felt her scalp tingle.
'Why "Mama"? Does Aunt Kanae think I'm a little kid?'
She shook off the thought and went to write her reply.