Hereditary Triangle is technically a two-volume series, but the Yen Press edition politely collects them into a single volume, allowing readers to sink fully into the world of this quiet but compelling drama. There's a thoughtful maturity to much of this short series, as its cast explores complex emotions and questions without any easy answers. Themes of grief, regret, and impermanence swirl throughout the narrative, as characters grapple with past mistakes and find ways to cope with (or resist) change.

These themes are best embodied in the recently deceased Tooru, a man who hated change and sought to preserve the world by taking photos and hoarding artifacts. As a child, Tooru cries about falling blossoms because it means the flowers will die; and as a young adult, he runs from his friends because he can't stand the idea of their relationship changing when Koutarou and Touko grow closer as a couple. His camera can't “capture” humans the way it can a blooming flower, and so he chooses to dismantle their triangle rather than watch it collapse.

The so-called “love triangle” at the heart of the narrative is a poignant one, because the trio all genuinely cared for each other and treasured their time together. Some readers may even catch a similar adoration in the way Koutarou looks at Touko and Tooru (and given that the author has a history of boys-love doujinshi, the similarity may well be intentional). “This could all be solved with polyamory” is a bit of a running joke with love triangle stories, but this one almost begged me to think it given how clearly these three loved one another.

That love is why Tooru's disappearance hits so hard and leaves such a strong mark on Koutarou and Touko. Twenty years later, they're still struggling with questions about themselves and their relationship. Those unanswered questions build into a story about facing the past and coming to terms with loss, as Koutarou, Touko, and Tooru's son Kaoru all reflect on their time with Tooru and try to find closure.

Fittingly for a story about grief and change, the narrative moves frequently between memories and current events, often blurring the line between timelines by having the cast return to places they once visited with Tooru. It's an intentional overlap meant to highlight the characters' own sense of disorientation, but it does run the risk of confusing or alienating readers. I had to pay close attention to the character designs to know if I was in the past or present.

Fortunately, the characters are visually distinct, grounded in realism but still expressive and unique. There's a wistful wispiness to the art as a whole, particularly the trees and flowers that dominate the outdoor backgrounds. I could practically hear them whispering in the wind. Interior backgrounds are less striking, although twin aquarium scenes use a fantastic contrast of black and white to convey the “closed” nature of the past versus the “open” possibility of the present. From art to themes to character interiority, so much of Hereditary Triangle flows naturally from one scene or interaction to the next—which is why the middle act stands out as such a jarring misstep. About halfway through the series, Koutarou and Touko take turns emotionally dumping on the young Kaoru, a college kid they met about three days ago. They effectively tell him everything, not just about their relationship with his dad, but about their own insecurities and the challenges in their marriage.

Kaoru mostly takes it in stride, and both Koutarou and Touko apologize afterwards, but it's still an unfair amount of baggage to lay on a teenager who just lost his dad. Perhaps the goal was to show that anyone can be selfish when they're fragile or grieving, but it doesn't mesh with what we see of Koutarou and (to a lesser extent) Touko before and after this point. It feels less like an understandable moment of weakness and more like the author couldn't figure out how to get to the emotional resolution without giving Kaoru a full history lesson.

These confession scenes are also paired with the unpleasant implication that Touko and Kaoru might be attracted to one another. Touko quickly corrects this misconception and the story beat is mercifully dropped, but it sours the dynamic and is so inconsequential that it didn't need to happen at all. Combined with the awkward monologues, I lost some trust in the story and spent the back half worried it was going to devolve into a soap opera.

I suspect I'd be more forgiving of those middle missteps during a reread, since I now know the series overcomes its flirtations with melodrama and builds to a satisfying, quietly affecting finale that hit me square in the chest. Hereditary Triangle's conclusion avoids both triteness and tragedy, giving its cast a bittersweet sort of closure that strengthens their current relationships and leaves them better equipped to face whatever changes the future inevitably brings.

Despite the clumsy handling of the middle act, there's a lot of emotional honesty, thoughtfulness, and maturity in Fumiya Hayashi's first original work. I'm hopeful we might someday see a translation of Kemutai Hanashi, her ongoing series that the internet describes as an asexual, queerplatonic slice-of-life, and generally excited to see what she creates next.