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 days of restless struggle, LKY finally gave in to the temptation of Koisuru Kisetsu. Even today, the feeling of opening it alone remains vivid—a sense of guilty infidelity. Reading it by himself felt like betraying the little girl who used to share it with him. Yet when he waited for her to arrive, it felt like he was abandoning Koisuru Kisetsu itself—as if Kyoko, the heroine, was already scolding him for being a heartless man.
Still, LKY had his tricks. Every time he borrowed Koisuru Kisetsu, he’d take several extra volumes—ones that came right after where the girl had last read. Just enough, never too many, so they’d last until the stall closed at dusk. Of course, LKY had already read those volumes himself—he was far ahead in the story—but no matter how far he got, he always remembered the last volume they’d read together. From then on, LKY developed a new skill: reading while staying alert to his surroundings. The moment the girl appeared at the alley’s entrance, he’d sense it instantly. He’d close the volume he was actually reading, pick up one of the “extra” ones, and slowly, deliberately, pretend to just be starting.
That summer, LKY insisted on bringing his own money for breakfast, yet went hungry every morning. That summer, he watched his friends lick ice pops, his mouth watering, but never bought one himself. That same summer, starving and lightheaded, he never bought a single pack of Little Raccoon crackers. All for the comics. Because Koisuru Kisetsu was just too good—and he needed to read it twice. Though each comic cost only 1.5 cents, Koisuru Kisetsu had dozens of volumes. Every penny he’d saved up went straight into that alleyway stall. That summer, LKY truly understood the saying: “Love makes even water taste like a feast.”
It must have been August, halfway through summer break. LKY can’t remember how many volumes of Koisuru Kisetsu they’d read together, only that the story had reached the part where Godai proposed to Kyoko—near the end. LKY had matured a bit, or perhaps didn’t want it to end, so he no longer rushed through the final volumes. By then, he’d started reading Cat’s Eye—those long legs were utterly mesmerizing. But his heart still belonged to Koisuru Kisetsu. He only used those alluring figures to distract himself. It was a kind of waiting—a desire to savor the sweetest ending with his dearest companion.
But then, one day, the cart piled with peaches disappeared. The girl who used to borrow books never came back. At first, LKY didn’t mind, still entranced by the black catsuits in Cat’s Eye. One day passed, then two, three, a week, half a month. Summer break was ending. School was about to start. The girl still hadn’t appeared. Suddenly, those long legs weren’t appealing anymore. The tight outfits held no charm. LKY panicked. Cat’s Eye couldn’t distract him now. He kept running to the alley’s entrance, only to return disappointed. He searched the streets a few times, wondering if her family had moved to a different selling spot—but found nothing.
One midday at the end of August, LKY trudged home, crestfallen. His mom was busy cooking lunch. She said there was fruit on the table if he was hungry. LKY slumped over the dining table, chin resting on his hand, staring blankly at the plastic fruit bowl in the center. One, two, three, four—four nectarines, familiar yet strange. He sniffed, lowered his head, and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. His mom, chopping vegetables, casually mentioned, “Peach season’s almost over. Eat these today—there won’t be any more after.” Obediently, LKY picked up one nectarine and took a small bite. The soft, juicy fruit was sweet, with a hint of tartness—and just a touch of salt.
Summer Case Files has been out for nearly a month now. It’s time to write something down as a keepsake. Of course, the main goal is also to boost visibility—maybe even flip this underdog onto its winning side. This is a true childhood story from LKY’s life, shared in hopes of bringing you a smile.
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