No man has ever cried harder than Masaki does when his sandbox crumbles apart.
He doesn’t wail, doesn’t curse. Doesn’t even make the slightest attempt to save his creations. But the way he tries and fails to hold his quiet sobs back as his sandcastles fall into ruins, each displaced grain floating away into space, is enough to put a dent in the hardest of hearts.
“It’s okay, Masaki,” Satoshi says, putting together a new foundation—small mounds, bigger piles, a touch of color in every direction. “We can always start over…”
Masaki smiles and vows to build a better earth.