Outside his window, cargo cranes continued moving through the darkness of Osaka Bay, endlessly transferring the weight of one generation into the next. … The old man lived in a narrow wooden house overlooking the industrial coastline of Osaka, where container cranes moved day and night like giant mechanical insects under the sodium lights. His name was Sakamoto Jirō. At seventy-eight, he still woke before sunrise. Every morning, he boiled cheap coffee in a dented aluminum kettle, opened the market terminals on his aging tablet, and checked freight rates, copper futures, and rare-earth prices before the younger traders in Tokyo had even entered their offices. People who met him assumed he had inherited wealth. He had the calmness of old money. The patience. The refusal to impress anyone. But Jirō had been born in 1948, in the shadow of postwar hunger. His father had unloaded coal by hand at Kobe Port. His mother repaired torn s...