A Comic Love Story: LKY, Summer Case Files, and a Little Girl

LKY loved comics. Back in the 90s, in his hometown, there were roadside book stalls—simple setups tucked into alleyways: two or three shelves, five or six tiny stools. Novels cost 3.5 cents per volume, while comics were just 1.5 cents. You couldn’t borrow them; you could only read on-site. With limited stools but plenty of readers, LKY often squatted against a wall, absorbed in reading for entire afternoons.

Back then, LKY’s favorite manga artists were Akira Toriyama, Masami Kurumada, Rumiko Takahashi, and Tsukasa Hojo. If he had to pick just one, it would be Rumiko Takahashi. Not because of Ranma ½ or Urusei Yatsura, but because of Koisuru Kisetsu—also known as Maison Ikkoku. At the time, Inuyasha hadn’t even been released yet. Even after Inuyasha became a phenomenon later on, Koisuru Kisetsu remained LKY’s all-time favorite manga.

He remembered he’d been chasing after Peacock King by Shungicu Uejima, but it was so popular that every time he went to the stall, someone else had already grabbed it. Since Ranma ½ was great, LKY picked up Koisuru Kisetsu from a pile of shoujo manga—and fell head over heels.

Well, there was a little side story to that “falling head over heels,” but rest assured, it was absolutely because Koisuru Kisetsu was so good, not because she was so pretty.

It was a summer evening. LKY, back then just a third- or fourth-grader, was reading Koisuru Kisetsu. He couldn’t remember which volume anymore—only that the story was getting really good. His backpack was cushioning his bottom as he leaned against the wall, completely absorbed. After a while, he caught a whiff of peaches. A little girl with a ponytail had squatted down beside him, intently reading the same manga in his hands—Koisuru Kisetsu. LKY froze. The page he’d been about to turn stopped mid-flip. When the next page didn’t come, the girl looked up. Their eyes met. Boom. Something exploded in LKY’s mind. He quickly lowered his head, pretending nothing had happened, and resumed reading Koisuru Kisetsu. He flipped a page, waited a bit—long enough to pretend he was reading—then flipped another. That evening, LKY finished two volumes of Koisuru Kisetsu, but he couldn’t recall a single thing he’d read.

Borrowing books was common. With limited pocket money and endless books to read, LKY often shared with friends—today I borrow yours, tomorrow you borrow mine. LKY was a bit stingy—if a friend kept borrowing without returning the favor, he’d get annoyed. But that little girl never let him borrow anything, and yet, LKY never got mad. Not only that, he began to secretly hope she’d come to read with him. If she didn’t show up one day, he’d feel lost, and reading just wasn’t as enjoyable. So from then on, whenever LKY arrived at the stall, he’d first scan the area to see if she was there. If she wasn’t, he’d read something else first. As for Koisuru Kisetsu? He’d just wait. Such a wonderful story shouldn’t be read half-heartedly or without flavor.

In the 90s, there were many roadside stalls—simple wooden pushcarts with only two wheels, pulled or pushed by hand. Villagers loaded them with produce and hauled them into town early each morning to sell. The little girl helped her family sell peaches from one such cart. She only came to read when most of the peaches were sold. Sometimes, if the peaches didn’t sell out even by nightfall, Koisuru Kisetsu would remain unread all day.

Having the book right there but resisting the urge to read it—doable for a day or two, but impossible over time. After a few