They walked softly beneath the paper lanterns—she in a pale pink kimono, he in a white yukata with crisp white patterns like waves at dusk. Her hair was pinned in a loose bun with a single silver ornament; his geta clacked softly on the stone. Neither spoke, but their pace was in rhythm, like a slow song only the two of them could hear.
Tourists paused to take pictures, but the couple paid them no mind. They just kept walking—past machiya townhouses, past the smell of soy glaze on skewers, past a teahouse that still served warabi mochi the way someone’s great-grandmother once did. As they turned down a quiet lane near Shirakawa Canal, time seemed to bend. For a moment, it was not 2025, but 1865. Just the sound of water and sandals and a heartbeat steady as silk being folded.
He reached up to brush a leaf from her shoulder.
She looked at him and smiled—small, knowing, full of that soft pride you feel when you’ve chosen well.
No words.
Behind them, someone snapped a photo. But they didn’t pose. They didn’t perform.
They were not pretending to be from the past.
They were simply bringing the past with them—
on their backs, in their sleeves, in the way she held her obi tight
and he stood a little taller beside her.
And as they turned the corner, disappearing into the golden light,
they left behind no footprints—
only a feeling,
like the echo of a haiku spoken aloud
then carried away by the wind.