Two days after I had secured the audio files I needed, I decided it was time to tell my parents about the phone call scheduled for the next day, Saturday, August 2.
We had chosen that date carefully, weighing every detail to make the whole setup as convincing as possible.
The time difference between Italy and Japan was critical: a call at 8:00 p.m. Italian time would be 3:00 a.m. over there—who answers the phone at that hour? No, we had to get the timing exactly right.
Saturday and Sunday were the only real options, since Dad didn't work and stayed home all day.
So we settled on 3:00 p.m. Italian time, which was 10:00 p.m. in Japan—a perfectly reasonable hour for an evening chat.
On August 1, at dinner—the only meal where we all sat together at the table in the living room—I gathered my courage.
I took a deep breath, set my fork down on the plate with a soft clink, and said, "Mom, Dad, do you remember Vincenzo and Anna, Alessandro's parents? The ones who used to live nearby years ago?"
My mother looked up from her food. "Of course, Christian. We haven't heard from them in ages. We lost touch after they moved to Japan."
"Those were good times," she added, smiling at the memory, "barbecues in their garden, you kids playing for hours."
"Yeah, it's been a long time," my father confirmed, nodding slowly as he poured himself some red wine. "Why bring it up? Has something happened? Do you have news about them?"
I couldn't waste time on small talk; I had to get to the point.
"As you know, they moved to Japan years ago. Alessandro grew up there, and now they're settled in Kyoto," I said confidently, even though no one in the family actually knew the exact city.
From my own research, I had learned they lived in Tokyo, but for my plan it was essential that my parents believed it was Kyoto.
My father responded with a mix of curiosity and surprise. "Kyoto, huh? They never told us the city. How'd you find out?"
My mother cut in at once, her tone warm but firm. "Don't tell me you're bringing this up because you want to go live with them, Christian. We've already talked about it: the answer's no. It's too far, and you're still too young."
"Hang on a second," I said, raising my hands defensively.
My heart was pounding. "I messaged them—I got in touch on Facebook and then WhatsApp, though over there they prefer LINE. They said they'd be happy to have me stay."
My mother shook her head, smiling. "Really? They're always so generous. We don't hear from them for years, then you suddenly message them asking for a place to stay, and they say yes. That's just like them."
My father spoke up after finishing a bite of bread. "Yeah, they probably said it out of politeness, but we can't impose like that. They have their own routine over there—work, family. You'd just be an extra burden."
"If you're both okay with it," I suggested, trying to keep my voice steady despite the adrenaline, "we could call them tomorrow at three. You can talk to them directly and sort everything out."
My father pulled out his phone, unlocked it with face recognition, and checked his digital calendar, full of notes and reminders.
"I'm free tomorrow, yeah. Nothing after lunch. Works for me," he said finally.
My mother nodded, though there was a trace of doubt in her eyes. "Me too. I wonder how much they've changed over the years. We've got a lot of catching up to do."
After lunch the next day, I retreated to my room. I sat down at my desk, opened Discord, and made a quick call to China and Nijiro.
"Hey guys," I said as soon as their icons lit up.
"Hey, Iori," China replied calmly.
"Hey, finally a call where it's not morning for me—it's 7 p.m. here," Nijiro added.
I told them I had pulled it off, everything was going according to plan: the call was set for tomorrow at three, the time we had agreed on beforehand after working out time zones and plausibility.
But Nijiro stopped me mid-thought. "There's a problem," he announced gravely.
In the tense silence that followed, he went on: "The number. If we use China's phone with the Italian +39 prefix, your parents will wonder why Vincenzo and Anna still have an Italian line instead of a Japanese one. That'd look odd, wouldn't it? It could blow the whole plan."
China jumped in right away. "You'll have to take the call, Nijiro. You're an actor—you'll nail the parents' voices better than I could. With the AI backing you up, it'll be flawless."
Nijiro agreed. "Yeah, no other way. I'll use my Japanese number, +81—that'll make it more believable. And with the software I can switch between Vincenzo's and Anna's voices without a hitch."
"I'll send you the audio files from the program on Discord," China said as he forwarded them.
The day ended in a rush of emotions.
I was buzzing with excitement at the thought of actually having a shot at going to Japan, but I was nervous too.
Everything rested on Nijiro: one slip-up, one AI glitch, and it was over.
I spent the evening running through every possible scenario, lying on my bed staring at the ceiling while the glow from my computer threw shifting shadows across the walls.
The next day came—Saturday, August 2.
At 2:30 p.m., Nijiro and China joined a private voice call on Discord so China could feed him answers through an earpiece if any tough questions came up.
I headed to the living room and got my parents settled on the couch.
My brother and sister came along too.
It wasn't ideal—especially Andrea, who could spot something off in the voice and blow the whole thing wide open.
Andrea was pretty decent with tech, unlike our parents, who weren't as comfortable with it.
Still, he was basically a beginner compared to me—he had only had his laptop since September 2024, less than a year.
He was still figuring out how to really use it; I was the one who had shown him how to crack games, for instance.
Nicole was just curious, wide-eyed and full of innocent questions that could easily complicate everything.
I leaned against the arm of the couch and dialed the number. My heart was hammering.
It rang once, twice, three times… then someone picked up.
I switched on the speakerphone and turned the volume all the way up so everyone could hear Nijiro with the modified voice.
"Hey Francesco, Sonia! Long time no speak!" the voice said from the other end, warm in a way that felt completely real.
I was stunned: China had tuned the AI perfectly. It didn't just sound natural, no robotic edge at all—it even carried Vincenzo's Pugliese accent.
One thing I hadn't thought about was that Nijiro didn't speak Italian.
China had covered it: Nijiro was probably speaking English or Japanese, and the AI was translating on the fly while layering on the right vocal tone.
It was so convincing that even I—someone who had spent plenty of time spotting AI content—could barely tell the difference.
My mom answered first, beaming. "Hi, Vincenzo! It's been forever! How are you two? And Anna—is she there with you?"
Nijiro switched smoothly to Anna's voice, higher and softer. "We're doing well, thanks. How about you? How's life back in Italy? Everything's running smoothly here in Japan, though this summer humidity is brutal."
The conversation flowed easily, pleasantries stretching on for several minutes.
They talked about the weather, about how Vincenzo had landed a job at a Japanese tech company that specialized in robotics—a detail we partly knew, fleshed out by Nijiro's quick improvisation from some fast research.
Anna's synthesized voice described how much Alessandro had grown, now a teenager obsessed with video games and manga.
But Andrea started asking pointed questions, eyes narrowed. "Why'd it take you so long to answer?"
Luckily, Nijiro didn't miss a beat.
In Vincenzo's voice, he replied: "It's an international call—there's sometimes a little lag. You know, satellites, networks… it can take an extra second. But tell me, Andrea, what are you up to these days? You're starting your last year of middle school, right?"
"Perfect," I thought, a wave of relief washing over me.
I had sent Nijiro a Word document that morning with some details about my family.
He had it open on his screen and used the fact that Andrea was about to start his final year of middle school to steer the conversation away.
"Yeah, then high school," Andrea answered, the suspicion gone from his voice as the question distracted him.
Nijiro switched back to Vincenzo's voice. "Like Christian probably told you, he wants to come to Japan. He messaged me that he spent a week here and was completely taken with it."
"The same thing happened to me years ago: we came on vacation with the family and I fell in love. I looked for work, and now we're here," he went on, sounding as if he were genuinely reliving memories he had never actually lived.
Finally he wrapped it up: "I couldn't turn him down; he's practically a nephew to us."
My mother sighed. "Oh, Vincenzo, you really shouldn't have bothered. Our son's going through one of those phases—he gets these wild ideas. He's impulsive, you know how he is."
My father nodded emphatically. "Exactly. It's just a passing fancy. Don't worry, he'll stay in Italy."
I couldn't blame them. At bottom, my dream of moving to Japan was selfish.
I wanted to feel again what I had felt during those days, but I was brushing aside my parents' worries, the separation from family, the risks abroad, the fact that I had be leaving illegally.
In Anna's voice, Nijiro stepped in carefully. "We understand. But because he's young, I think it would be good to let him have experiences that help him grow."
"Settling into a different society, learning a new language, adapting to different customs… it's a real life lesson," he added.
Then he switched to Vincenzo: "Our son Alessandro learned so much when we came here. Leaving his comfort zone made him independent. Now he's fluent in Japanese and has tons of friends."
Andrea wasn't done yet. "Speaking of Alessandro, isn't he there? I'd love to say hi—it's been ages."
In Anna's voice, Nijiro answered without hesitation: "He's already in bed. It's ten o'clock here, and we put him to sleep around now. I'll pass on your hellos."
My mother was still hesitant. "But… I don't know. It's a huge commitment for you. What if Christian causes trouble? What if he doesn't fit in?"
In Vincenzo's voice, Nijiro reassured her: "Don't worry—we'll keep him busy. We'll give him chores like any other family member: cleaning, cooking, grocery runs. That way you won't feel you owe us anything, because Christian will pull his weight. It'll be good for him."
"But what if he breaks something?" my father asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Well, that can happen when someone's new to things. If it does, we'll just put him on the next flight home," he said with a laugh, and everyone laughed with him, the tension easing.
Then, in Anna's voice: "Anyway, we've already looked into the school he'd go to—the same one Alessandro attends."
"It combines middle and high school," he added. "The principal said that if he doesn't reach N2 level in Japanese by the end of the year, he'll be expelled."
"So he'd come straight back to Italy." He finished reassuringly: "It's a built-in guarantee."
My mother nodded slowly, looking a little more persuaded than before. "All right, thank you for being open to it. Francesco and I will talk it over, and then we'll message you—okay? Maybe in a few days."
"Of course, take all the time you need," Nijiro replied in Vincenzo's voice.
My father suddenly remembered something. "Oh, by the way—now that you have Japanese numbers, let's swap them properly. We have yours, Vincenzo. Can we get Anna's too? That way we can reach either of you if we need to."
Panic hit me, though I managed to keep it off my face.
We hadn't planned for them wanting separate numbers. My heart jumped into my throat, and I stared at the phone, gripping it like it might slip from my fingers.
Nijiro went quiet for thirty seconds—a heavy, endless silence.
Then he spoke again in Vincenzo's voice: "Sorry, the call dropped for a second. What did you say?"
He had bought himself time to think—probably checking with China—and come up with an answer.
"We were asking for Anna's number. We only have yours, Vincenzo," my father repeated.
Nijiro switched to Anna's voice: "Oh, of course. Mine is +81 67 4592 8839. But if you don't mind, call my husband first—I'm always forgetting to turn the ringer on," she said with a light laugh that brushed away the last traces of doubt.
She added: "If you do send Christian over, get in touch with him first. We might be slow to reply with everything we have going on."
"Got it," my parents said, nodding as they carefully typed in the number and saved the contact.
As my pulse finally slowed and I watched them add it, one question burned in my mind: "What number had Nijiro just given them for Anna?"
The call ended on a good note—warm goodbyes and promises to stay in touch.
It wasn't a firm yes, but we had moved from an outright no to a "we'll think about it", and that already felt like a huge victory.
As I hung up, joy and exhaustion mixed together: the adrenaline was draining away, leaving a tired, satisfied smile.
But now curiosity was eating at me. "What number had Nijiro given for Anna's contact?"