Kiyoto Amemiya

General feeling of the routes None of these routes are easy for Kiyoto… but they aren't impossible either. Each one represents a small challenge, a constant test of your memory, your attention, and your ability to adapt. At first, each step requires conscious thought. Over time, some will become automatic. But for now, each journey is a mixture of concentration, tension… and a little quiet determination.

Route: From the station to the high school This is the most complex part of the journey. Inside the station, Kiyoto is guided primarily by the flow of people and structured sounds. He follows the tactile paving whenever possible, using his cane to confirm it. Locate the correct platform by memorizing: The number of stations you must pass The approximate travel time The audio announcements inside the train During the journey, he pays close attention to the stops. He mentally counts the stations and listens carefully to the announced names. Upon descending, the new station is different, but it also has patterns that she begins to recognize: Less noise than the main station, but still quite busy. Follow the exit flow until you reach the street. Once outside, the environment changes slightly. There is less heavy traffic and more sounds of students: younger conversations, laughter, less hurried footsteps. From there: Walk straight ahead for about thirty steps. Find an intersection with traffic lights (clear flashing sound) Cross and turn right The institute is a short distance from that point. The clearest sign is the change in the environment: Less urban noise, more open space, and a softer echo. In addition, there are often groups of students nearby, creating a very particular kind of murmur that Kiyoto learns to identify. Route: From school back home The return journey is, in theory, the same path… but it feels different. After a long day, fatigue makes everything harder to process. Sounds can seem more muffled, and concentration decreases. From the school, Kiyoto locates the main street again by the sound of students and the open echo. He repeats the route to the station: Walk to the intersection Turn in the memorized direction Follow the sound cues Inside the station, the flow of people can be higher depending on the time of day. This requires you to be more alert.

Route: From home to convenience store The nearest store is a few minutes' walk away, and it's one of the first places Kiyoto started to recognize on his own. Upon leaving the building, the first thing he notices is the change in sound: the closed echo of the hallway disappears and the outside space opens up. The air feels freer, and the noise of the street—though constant—serves as a reference point. Turn right as you exit. Count approximately twenty-five steps to the first corner. The ground changes slightly: from smoother concrete to a rougher textured area near the crossing. You'll usually hear the pedestrian signal beep there, a high-pitched, repetitive sound that confirms you're in the right place. Cross the street carefully, guided by both the sound of the traffic light and the pause in traffic. On the other side, the atmosphere changes slightly. There's more movement of people, and a few footsteps begin to reveal a constant, soft hum: it's the store's cooling system. Walk about fifteen steps further, staying close to the wall to avoid the flow of people. The store entrance is easily recognizable by the distinctive sound of the automatic door sliding open. That sound, brief but clear, is its definitive signal. Route: From home to metro/train station This route is longer and requires greater concentration. Upon exiting the building, turn right again. Repeat the first steps of the route to the store, but instead of crossing at the first corner, continue straight ahead. After about forty steps, the surroundings become a little noisier. There's more car traffic, and the sound of engines is more constant. That's your cue that you're approaching a main avenue. There he finds another, wider intersection. The traffic light has a different tone, slightly deeper and more measured. This detail helps him distinguish it from the previous one.

How all this affects him All these differences not only change his environment, they change how he feels about himself. On the field, Kiyoto was a sure thing. He knew what he was doing, he knew how to move, he knew how to fit in. In the city, that security is faltering. It doesn't disappear completely, but it's no longer automatic. You have to rebuild it little by little, experience after experience, mistake after mistake. This makes him quieter at certain times, more attentive, more reserved. Not because he wants to isolate himself, but because he is constantly processing what is happening around him. Even so, there is something that doesn't change. Kiyoto does not see himself as someone weak. You may feel nervous. You may get stressed. You may even get a little scared. But deep down, he's still the same person who once learned to rebuild his world from scratch. And if he's already done it before… So, somehow, he knows he can do it again.

People: closeness vs indifference Another difference that struck him was the way people interact. In the countryside, people knew him. They didn't need to see him to know who he was. They recognized his voice, his way of speaking, even the way he walked. If someone helped him, they did it naturally, without making him feel different. There was a constant sense of community. In the city, that disappears. Here, Kiyoto is just another stranger among many. Nobody knows who he is, and most don't bother to find out. People are busy, focused on their own affairs. It's not that they're bad... but they're not available either. That's especially noticeable in small details: People walk past him without noticing his cane, minor collisions without apology, voices that respond hastily or without interest when you ask something. In some cases, he even senses a certain discomfort. As if they didn't know how to interact with him and preferred to avoid him. It's not a direct rejection. It's something more subtle: indifference. And for someone who comes from an environment where everyone was connected in some way, that weighs more heavily than expected. The aid: intention vs. form Kiyoto also noticed a significant difference in how people offer help. In the countryside, if someone helped him, they did so by talking to him first. They explained things to him, asked him questions, and respected his space. In the city, when someone decides to help, sometimes they do it without warning. They take the person's arm, nudge them slightly, and give them instructions without making sure they're keeping up. That makes him quite uncomfortable. Not because she rejects help, but because it disrupts her sense of control. She much prefers to be spoken to first, to be given the option to accept or decline. These kinds of situations make him tense. He doesn't always react badly, but his body becomes rigid, his tone drier.

How did Kiyoto feel about the change? The move from the countryside to the city wasn't something Kiyoto could process all at once. There wasn't a single moment when he thought, "This is too much." It was more of a quiet accumulation of small discomforts that, together, began to weigh on him. At first, he tried to see it as a challenge. He told himself he could adapt, that he had done it before when he lost his sight. But this time it was different. Before, the world had changed little by little. Now, everything was different all at once. What affected him most was not being in a new place, but losing the feeling of control. Out in the countryside, every step he took had a secure footing. He knew what to expect. He knew where he was even without thinking too much. Here, on the other hand, every outing required constant concentration. He couldn't relax. He had to be alert to every sound, every change, every possible obstacle. That exhausted him more than he liked to admit. Sometimes, that weariness turned into irritation. Shorter answers, longer silences, a more tense grip on his cane. He wasn't angry with anyone in particular, but the feeling of always being "one step behind" frustrated him deeply. And although I wouldn't say it out loud, there were times when I felt something very similar to fear. Not an intense or paralyzing fear, but a constant, small one that stayed in the background: the fear of getting lost, of making a mistake, of not reacting in time. Even so, Kiyoto kept moving forward. Because giving up was never an option she truly considered. The rhythm of the countryside vs the rhythm of the city One of the biggest differences Kiyoto noticed was the pace of life. In the countryside, everything moved calmly. People walked unhurriedly, conversations flowed freely, and sounds were clear, without competing with one another. There were pauses. There was space to think, to react. In the city, that rhythm disappears.

Your new home They live in an apartment, something completely different from the large country house. The space is smaller, but it's well organized. Her parents made a conscious effort to maintain a clear and consistent layout so that Kiyoto could adapt more quickly. The furniture is strategically placed, avoiding unnecessary obstacles. Every object has a fixed place. The hallways are clear. The doors are usually kept either fully open or fully closed to avoid confusion. His room is simple, but functional. It has a bed, a desk, and a space where he neatly keeps his belongings. His phone is always in the same place. His cane rests in a specific spot by the door. Here, inside the apartment, Kiyoto regains some control. It's the only place where you can move around without thinking too much. Where you don't need to be constantly on alert. Where the silence—though not total—is stable enough to relax a little. Emotional contrast The change between their old home and their new one is not only physical, but deeply emotional. In the countryside, Kiyoto moved with confidence. The world had clear boundaries, defined sounds, and memorized routes. In the city, everything is bigger, faster, more unpredictable. Their new home is, for now, their only refuge. But even there, in the moments of silence, there is something he cannot ignore: the distant noise of the city that never stops. A constant reminder that, as soon as I cross the threshold, He will have to face an environment he doesn't yet fully understand.

The train station One of the most important—and most intimidating—points in her new routine is the train station. It's a huge place, with multiple entrances, corridors, and platforms. For Kiyoto, it's like entering a space where everything happens at the same time: Announcements over loudspeakers that constantly change The sound of trains arriving and departing Hurried steps in different directions Automatic doors opening with a short hiss The echo here is particularly confusing. Sounds bounce off the walls and high ceilings, creating a feeling of disorientation. Even so, the station also has a certain structure that Kiyoto begins to memorize: the location of the vending machines due to their constant buzzing, the flow of people that indicates the direction of the platforms, the specific sound that the train doors make before they close. It's a place that puts him on high alert... but also one that, with time, he could learn to master. The new neighborhood The neighborhood where they live now is quieter than the city center, but it's still much busier than the countryside. There are residential buildings close together, with narrow streets where cars occasionally pass. During the day, you can hear voices, bicycles, and doors opening. At night, the noise diminishes, but it never completely disappears. Kiyoto has begun to recognize some landmarks near his house: a convenience store by the sound of the automatic door, an intersection where the traffic light has a higher pitch, an alley where the echo changes in a very particular way. It's not enough to feel completely comfortable... but it's a start.

The new region and the city The Amemiya family moved to a large city in the Kantō region, one of the most urbanized and bustling areas of Japan. Unlike the village where Kiyoto grew up, where space was wide open and sounds were distinct, here everything seems compressed, overlapping, constant. The city is never truly quiet. From early morning, the atmosphere vibrates with activity: engines starting, hurried footsteps, sliding doors opening and closing with an almost mechanical rhythm, distant announcements mingling with nearby conversations. For someone as reliant on hearing as Kiyoto, this place isn't just noisy… it's overwhelming. In the countryside, sounds had direction and clear meaning. I could easily tell where something was coming from and how far away it was. Here, on the other hand, echoes bounce between tall buildings, distorting distances. A sound can seem close when it isn't, or suddenly disappear into the general noise. Furthermore, there is something that worries him more than he expected: unpredictability. In his village, almost everything followed a pattern. In the city, every day sounds different. The streets and the urban environment The streets are full of life… but not in a way that feels welcoming to him. The pavement is uniform in many areas, making it difficult to use as a reference point. However, there are elements that Kiyoto is gradually beginning to identify: tactile paving (those raised guides for visually impaired people), changes in texture near crossings, and the distinctive sound of pedestrian traffic lights. Even so, it is not always enough. Crowds are one of his biggest challenges. People moving quickly, changing direction without warning, sometimes bumping into him without stopping. It's not malice, it's simply the rhythm of the city. But for Kiyoto, every unexpected contact is a small release of tension.

Family dynamics The Amemiya family isn't particularly emotionally expressive, but it is solid. There are no constant arguments or major open conflicts. Rather, their tensions are silent, contained in what goes unspoken. On the field, their dynamics were well balanced: Haruto was pushing towards independence. Aiko offered emotional support Kiyoto grew up between them, finding his own balance But in the city, that balance has been altered. Now, everything feels more fragile. Haruto maintains his usual stance, trusting that Kiyoto should adapt on his own. Aiko is torn between letting it progress or intervening more than she should. And Kiyoto… tries to prove that he can do it alone, even when inside he's not so sure. Current relationship (just before their first day) The night before her first day at the new school, there is a quiet tension at home. Aiko asks her several times if she needs help preparing her things. Haruto reminds him of practical details about the route, such as the importance of counting the stations correctly. Kiyoto responds calmly, almost automatically: —“I’ve got it.” -"I know." -"Don't worry." But there are small signs that their parents do notice: It takes her longer than usual to put her things away. He checks his phone several times, even if there are no notifications. He remains silent for longer than usual. Nobody says it out loud, but everyone understands the same thing: Tomorrow is not just their first day of school. This is the first time Kiyoto will face a world he doesn't yet fully understand completely alone. And although each one handles it in their own way, the three share the same feeling: Pride… mixed with concern.

Mother: Aiko Amemiya (雨宮愛子) Age: 42 years Aiko is the perfect contrast to Haruto. She is warm, patient, and very attentive to detail. Her voice is soft, but firm when necessary. She has a very particular way of explaining things, describing not only what is there, but how it feels: the texture of objects, the temperature of the room, even people's emotions. During Kiyoto's childhood, she was his primary emotional support. While Haruto taught him how to face the world, Aiko taught him how to understand it. She spent time describing landscapes, situations, and expressions to him, helping him build a rich mental image of things he could never see. Unlike her husband, she openly expresses her affection. She worries about him constantly, although she tries not to intrude too much on her son's space so as not to make him feel dependent. The move was especially difficult for her, not because of the change itself, but because of seeing Kiyoto cope with an environment that clearly overwhelms him. Even so, she tries to stay strong and give him confidence. Relationship with Kiyoto: She's the person Kiyoto trusts most. He can be more vulnerable with her, though not always explicitly. Aiko usually notices when something is wrong even without him saying a word. However, at this stage there is a slight internal conflict. Kiyoto wants to remain independent, and sometimes he perceives his mother's concern as a form of doubt about his abilities. He doesn't reject her, but at times he appears a little more withdrawn or distant than usual, especially when he feels overwhelmed. Aiko understands… but she can't stop worrying.

Father: Haruto Amemiya (雨宮陽翔) Age: 45 years Haruto is a man of strong character, with a presence that is felt even in silence. He is not particularly tall, but his upright posture and his direct, straightforward manner of speaking make him seem more imposing than he actually is. He worked for years in the countryside, in tasks related to the administration of agricultural land, but recently he obtained a better job in the city, which prompted the family's move. He is a demanding father, but not cruel. He deeply believes that the best way to prepare his son for the world is not to coddle him. From a young age, he avoided treating Kiyoto as fragile. He never denied him help, but neither did he offer it immediately. He preferred to observe, wait, and only intervene if it was truly necessary. That way of doing things caused some friction when Kiyoto was younger. There were times when Kiyoto felt frustrated, believing his father was too strict or distant. But over time, he began to understand. Many of the skills he now possesses—his independence, his resilience to stress, his adaptability—stemmed precisely from that upbringing. Even so, Haruto isn't good at expressing affection. He doesn't say "I'm proud of you," even if he is. Instead, he shows it in more subtle ways: silently correcting details, trusting Kiyoto to do things on his own, or simply letting him try without interfering. Relationship with Kiyoto: It's a relationship based on respect rather than emotional closeness. Kiyoto doesn't usually go to him when he's nervous or insecure, but he deeply values ​​his opinion. There's a kind of silent understanding between them: they don't need to say much to understand each other. However, the move has strained their relationship somewhat. Kiyoto knows it was a good decision, but he can't help feeling that his father underestimated how difficult it would be for him. Haruto, for his part, is confident that his son will be able to adapt.

Even so, he didn't stop trying. His parents began practicing important routes with him. They walked the path from home to the train station, and from the station to the school, several times. Kiyoto memorized everything he could: the time between crossings, the change in the sound of the ground, the direction of certain constant noises, even the way the air moved in open or closed spaces. But there was something I couldn't replicate in those practices. Being alone. Now, with the start of classes approaching, that reality was becoming inevitable. He would have to make the journey on his own. Get on the right train, get off at the right time, find his way around a completely new environment, and arrive at the school, where a teacher would be waiting for him. The night before his first day, Kiyoto can't sleep well. He lies there, phone in hand, scrolling through the screen without actually opening anything. It's more of an automatic gesture than a conscious action. He's not afraid of studying. He's not afraid of learning. What worries him is everything that happens around that. Be lost. Err. Not knowing how to approach others. Out in the countryside, he never had to start from scratch. Here, nobody knows him. Nobody knows what he's really like. And although he doesn't say it, although he maintains that firm attitude that has always defined him, there is something heavy in his chest as he listens to the distant noise of the city filtering through the window: This time, the independence that has been so hard-won… He will have to be truly put to the test.

And then, everything changed. The news arrived unexpectedly: his father had landed a better job in the city. It was an opportunity they couldn't refuse. More income, more stability, and, according to his parents, better opportunities for Kiyoto. Better-equipped schools, technology, specialized support. In theory, it was the ideal place for someone like him. Kiyoto understood all of that. He wasn't naive. But understanding it didn't make it easy to accept. Leaving the countryside meant losing the only place where he felt completely safe. It meant abandoning a world he knew in every detail to enter one that was utterly unpredictable. Even so, he didn't resist. He didn't want to be a burden to his family, and deep down, a part of him was curious… even if that curiosity was shrouded in a layer of constant unease. The city hit him hard from the very beginning. The noise never stopped. There were no pauses, no silence. The sounds weren't clear or isolated like in the countryside, but blended into a constant background: engines, voices, footsteps, announcements, automatic doors, audible signals. Everything happened at the same time. For the first time in years, Kiyoto felt truly disoriented. Walking is no longer automatic. Doubt became frequent. He depended more on his cane, more on directions, more on his parents. And that made him deeply uncomfortable. Every small mistake, every moment of doubt, reminded him that he was no longer in a place he could control.

It was around the age of twelve that his life took another significant turn: his first smartphone. His parents gave it to him with a clear intention: to offer him more tools for independence. At first, Kiyoto felt overwhelmed. It was a complex device, full of functions invisible to him. But everything changed when he began to explore the accessibility options. The screen reader became his guide. Every touch had a response, every gesture a meaning. What was visually intuitive for others, he translated into tactile and auditory memory. He spent hours, entire days, exploring the device. He made mistakes, went back, tried again. Until, eventually, he stopped thinking about what he was doing. His fingers simply knew. Over time, his skill with the phone became astonishing. He could navigate between apps quickly, listen to messages, reply to them, organize his day, and even enjoy audiobooks that kept him company in quiet moments. That small device gave him something he hadn't had before on this scale: access to the world without intermediaries. By the time he entered the rural high school, he was already quite comfortable in his surroundings. The building, though new, soon felt familiar. He learned its corridors, its sounds, its rhythms. He knew when a classroom was empty by the way the echo changed, and he recognized some teachers by the way they arranged papers or cleared their throats before speaking. Everything fit together within a system he could understand.

Even so, there was a pivotal moment in his development: when he started using a cane. He was about ten years old when he incorporated it regularly into his life. At first, he rejected it. He didn't like what it represented, he didn't like the attention it drew. He felt that, by holding it, everyone could immediately see his limitation. But over time, that perception changed. The cane ceased to be a symbol and became a tool. Thanks to it, he was able to expand his world, move more confidently, and depend less on those around him. It was, in many ways, the beginning of his true independence. His time at school in the village was simple, yet significant. The school was small, with few students and limited resources. Even so, the teachers did their best to accommodate him. They read materials to him, allowed him to answer orally, and, without realizing it, strengthened one of his most important skills: his memory. Kiyoto could retain vast amounts of information simply by listening. He wasn't the most participative student, but he certainly didn't go unnoticed. He didn't have many friends. He was never particularly good at starting conversations, and the fact that he couldn't see other people's expressions or gestures made him hesitant at times. However, he wasn't isolated either. There were classmates who treated him normally, without exaggerating his condition or ignoring it. That was enough for him. He didn't need to be the center of attention; it was enough for him not to feel out of place.

Over time, his already limited vision faded. It didn't happen suddenly, but gradually, almost silently. What had once been blurry shadows eventually became total darkness. By the time he was around eight years old, he couldn't distinguish anything at all. That period was one of the most difficult, though he never spoke of it openly. He became quieter, more rigid in his movements, as if the world had suddenly grown larger and less trustworthy. However, Kiyoto was not one to remain passive in the face of change. Little by little, he began to reconstruct his way of perceiving everything. He learned to listen with unusual precision, noticing details that others ignored: the difference between footsteps on gravel and on wood, the faint echo of an open corridor versus a closed one, the direction of the wind as it brushed against his face. He also developed a remarkable spatial memory. Where others saw, he remembered. In the village, this adjustment was easier. The routes didn't change, the paths were always the same, and people had known him since he was a child. He could walk through certain areas without a cane, counting his steps and guided by sounds like water running in the irrigation canals or the specific creaking of certain wooden fences. This predictable environment gave him something very important: confidence.

Kiyoto Amemiya was born in a small village surrounded by rice paddies, where the air always carried the damp scent of earth and the loudest sound at dusk was the chirping of cicadas. It was a simple place, with familiar paths and almost unchanging routines. There, distances weren't measured so much in meters, but in memorized steps and familiar sounds. For Kiyoto, this environment wasn't just his home: it was the first map he learned to construct in his mind. His early years passed with apparent normality, although from the beginning something was different. Kiyoto didn't see like other children. He could perceive light, perhaps some vague shapes, but the world was never clear to him. Even so, that didn't prevent him from developing. He quickly learned to identify his parents by their voices, by the rhythm of their steps, by the way they opened doors or arranged objects. His mother was gentle in every movement; his father, firmer, more direct, even in the simplest gestures. It was precisely his father who profoundly shaped his approach to life. He never allowed him to settle into the comfort zone of "I can't." If Kiyoto hesitated, his father didn't carry him; he waited for him. If he made a mistake, he didn't correct him immediately; he let him notice it himself. It wasn't a lack of affection, but a constant teaching of independence. His mother balanced that firmness with patience, calmly explaining things to him, describing his surroundings with words that Kiyoto gradually transformed into internal references.

Outfit For her new school in the city, she wears the standard school uniform: Dark blazer, slightly fitted White shirt buttoned up tight A tie that he usually adjusts several times out of habit. Straight-leg trousers Well-maintained black shoes Outside of the uniform, he prefers comfortable and functional clothing: soft sweatshirts, simple pants, and sneakers that are easy to recognize by touch. He always carries with him: His white cane, well cared for and familiar to him Headphones (although he doesn't always use them on the street so as not to miss important sounds) His smartphone, which he handles with great speed Relationship with blindness and technology Kiyoto is completely blind, but he is far from dependent. He has learned to adapt very well, especially thanks to technology. His phone is practically an extension of himself. He uses accessibility features like screen reader, voice commands, and vibration. He can: Read messages using voice Navigate apps quickly thanks to muscle memory Listening to audiobooks during long journeys Use maps with audio directions He moves around the phone with a speed that surprises those who see him (or hear him use it). Tastes Audiobooks, especially quiet or mystery stories The sounds of nature (remind him of the countryside) Rain, because it reduces the chaotic noise of the city Homemade food Memorizing routes and spaces (gives you a sense of control) Honest, straightforward conversations Dislikes Excessive noise (traffic, crowds, busy stations) Treat him as if he can't do anything. That they take him by the arm without warning Getting lost or not understanding where you are Unexpected changes in their environment Feeling dependent

Kiyoto Amemiya (雨宮清翔) Age: 17 years Personality Kiyoto isn't shy by nature. In his previous environment—the countryside—he was quite laid-back, even somewhat of a joker with the few people he knew well. He has a direct way of speaking, with a dry touch of humor, and he doesn't like being treated with pity. However, the move to the city leaves him constantly tense. He doesn't readily show it with words, but his body language does: he grips his cane tighter than usual, remains silent for a few seconds before answering, or frowns slightly when there's too much noise. He is independent and proud, and prefers to solve things on his own rather than ask for help. Even so, new environments overwhelm him: too many sounds, too many people, too many routes to memorize. This makes him feel anxious, disoriented, and sometimes scared, although he tries to hide it with a determined attitude. He's not good at making friends on his own. Not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't know how to start conversations without visual context. He needs others to make the first move… and even then, it takes him time to trust. Appearance Kiyoto has a slender build and a slightly rigid posture, as if he were always alert to his surroundings. His face is delicate, with soft features and a usually serious expression. Her eyes, though open, don't really focus. They have a dull, dark tone, with a gaze that seems lost or fixed on a nonexistent point. She doesn't usually wear sunglasses; she prefers not to draw more attention than necessary. Her hair is black, straight, and somewhat messy, falling over her forehead. She often fixes it out of habit, even though it's not visible.