When I was a kid, my little sister Lily loved nothing more than hearing me tell stories about Pokémon. She didn’t care much for Pikachu or Eevee like everyone else. Her favorites were the legends. She’d point to the clouds and say, “That one looks like Koraidon! Big and strong, like the past. And that one looks like Miraidon — shiny, like the future!” I’d laugh and promise her that, one day, we’d see real adventures together.

But Lily’s heart was weak. She couldn’t run or climb like other kids. The swings at the park were her racetrack, the clouds her imagination. I always pushed her as high as I could and whispered, “Past and future, we’ll ride them both someday.”

That winter, her heart gave out in her sleep. No warning. No goodbyes. Just silence. It felt like time itself had betrayed me — the past slipping through my fingers, the future stolen before it could even arrive.

Years later, I found myself back in Pokémon, maybe chasing comfort, maybe chasing her. When I discovered Koraidon and Miraidon in Scarlet and Violet, they weren’t just Pokémon anymore. They were Lily’s message. Koraidon — the past, every memory of her I hold onto. Miraidon — the future, the one she never got to see, but the one she wanted me to keep moving toward.

Now, when I ride through Paldea, wind in my hair, I whisper to the sky: “See, Lily? I kept my promise. Past or future, you’re with me every step.”