"After that?" Sora Kamakawa repeated, thoughtful, taking a few seconds before replying.
"Does Mikako… does she die or not? And then-" Sumire cut in, her voice a little faster than usual. She noticed it herself but didn't try to hide it. Those few minutes of reading had been enough to pull her completely into the story, and her emotions were still trapped there-restless, demanding answers.
Sora gathered his thoughts before speaking.
"As far as the animation script is concerned, that's where the story ends," he said carefully. "But after it airs-when we release the Blu-ray… or if, soday, there's a chance to adapt it into a novel-we can add more. We can flesh out details that a short format simply can't hold."
"Airs…" Sumire's gaze sharpened, almost cutting. "You're talking about a TV broadcast?"
She frowned slightly.
"This is just a short animation. With this amount of story, it's at most thirty minutes. You really plan to put it on a TV ti slot?"
She had always assud he would take the more common route: a direct Blu-ray release, maybe selling rights, perhaps trying a festival circuit. Shorts rarely found space on television schedules.
"It's worth trying," Sora replied, straightening his posture. "The person in charge of that section at the prefectural station had a decent relationship with my father. I spoke with him about it just yesterday."
His tone grew firr, as if he were presenting a plan he had already thought through.
"In the winter lineup that starts in January, they have an ani with only twelve episodes. When that series ends at the end of March, there'll be a one-week gap before the next one begins in April."
He tapped the desk lightly.
"Voices of a Distant Star fits perfectly into that slot."
Of course, there was an invisible cost to all of this. Favors to be called in, conversations to be 'adjusted,' connections to be used. Nothing ca for free.
In that world, television was still the main channel for promoting dramas and animation. The internet hadn't taken center stage yet. The fee paid for broadcasting itself was small-almost aningless compared to production costs-unless it was a nationally anticipated hit. For most studios, TV was a showcase: a way to gain visibility, build reputation, and then try to recover costs through Blu-rays, rchandise, and overseas licensing.
"Three months…" Sumire murmured, lightly biting her lip.
Even considering Sora's experience from another life, the schedule was tight. Normally, from project approval to broadcast, six months was already the bare minimum. Feature films often started production one or even two years before release.
A single twenty-minute animation at standard quality required thousands of key drawings. If the goal was sothing close to theatrical quality, that number could easily double or triple-and that was only one stage of the process.
The director-the living core of the production-was consud by it all.
Just storyboarding a single episode could involve hundreds of cuts. If the director handled it alone, it could take weeks just to visually structure the narrative. After that ca layouts based on those rough boards, and only then could animators and supervisors truly begin their work.
Every stage devoured ti.
And when production entered the final stretch, close to airing, everything overlapped: one episode in sound finishing, another in voice recording, another in photography, yet another scrambling to complete delayed cuts. Endless etings, corrections, retakes.
In the end, it beca organized chaos-held together by sheer pressure.
And nothing moved forward without the director's approval.
On the other hand, this reality had one advantage. Technology here was different. Support software and AI-based tools could reduce production ti in certain steps. On their own, the savings seed small. But when several shortcuts added up, the gains beca significant.
Besides, Voices of a Distant Star was short. It didn't have the complexity of a long series.
Three months was still tight-but not impossible.
The real problem was the current state of Dream Animation. With the staff reduced, much of the work would have to be outsourced. And working with external studios always consud ti through communication, adjustnts, and alignnt.
And then there was another issue.
Sora.
He had taken on the role of director out of necessity, not because of solid experience. If he took too long on each storyboard, if his instructions were vague, if the team couldn't clearly understand what he wanted… any delay could multiply.
"So we basically have no ti to waste," Sumire concluded, her voice firm.
"I know…" Sora let out a heavy sigh.
The debt repaynt deadline was right around the corner. Four, maybe five months. He couldn't afford to drag this project out indefinitely.
Then sothing in her words finally hit him.
"We?" he repeated cautiously. "Sumire… when you say 'we,' do you an-"
"I already told you to just call by my na," she replied softly.
Sumire held his gaze for a mont, took a deep breath, and nodded without hesitation.
"I really like this story."
She knew that a good script didn't guarantee a good animation. An unprepared director could turn anything into garbage. Even so, she had been clear from the start: if the script was good, she would stay.
As for Sora's ability as a director…
Sumire looked away for a mont and let out a long breath.
All that remained was to hope he would grow quickly-to learn through practice, by making mistakes, correcting them, evolving-until he could guide the work to a level worthy of the script.
And if that didn't happen…
If he turned out to be completely lost, if everything fell apart and the project beca a 'famous case' for all the wrong reasons, airing on television as a punchline…
She pushed the thought aside.
Thinking too much only irritated her. If she had to pay that price, she would.
She would consider it a way of repaying everything Hiroshi Kamakawa had done for her in the past.
Sumire then smiled faintly, stood up, and extended her hand first.
"It's a pleasure to work with you, Director Kamakawa."
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