Susukino at night is a different creature—one stitched together from neon, steam, and voices. Some people say it’s no place for a child, and perhaps they’re right. But tonight, with my daughter’s hand tucked inside mine, the city feels softer, as though the lights themselves are minding their manners.
Hana is seven and small, but her curiosity is bright enough to rival any signboard here. The moment we step out of the station, her eyes widen at the glowing river of advertisements: crimson kanji blinking over ramen shops, vivid blues shimmering above bars she is too young to imagine, golden lanterns bobbing in the breeze. She looks up as though she is walking through constellations.
“Are these stars?” she asks, pointing at a row of lights that flicker in unison.
“City stars,” I tell her. “They shine differently, but they still help us find our way.”
We walk slowly, as if we have all the time in the world. The air is thick with the mingled scents of grilled meat, sweet crepes, cigarette smoke, and winter’s breath. Somewhere, a pachinko parlor hums, its mechanical chorus spilling into the street. I feel Hana tighten her grip but she doesn’t pull away—she simply adjusts to the new rhythm around her, the way children do before adults teach them how to be afraid.
We pass a group of office workers spilling out of an izakaya, their laughter buoyant and harmless. One of them glances at us with faint surprise—perhaps wondering why a mother and daughter are out here at this hour—but then he smiles, a small bow of acknowledgment, and keeps moving. We continue on, weaving past vending machines glowing like miniature shrines.
At the corner near the ramen alley, a chef stands outside his shop, stirring a simmering pot that he brings out to cool. The steam curls upward like a beckoning spirit. Hana stops, enchanted. The chef leans down and says, “Late-night adventures?” His voice is gentle, warmed by the broth he carries inside him. I nod, and Hana returns a shy smile before we move along.
Despite its reputation, Susukino contains pockets of unexpected tenderness. A couple shares taiyaki from a paper bag. A taxi driver carefully helps an old man into his seat. A stray cat lounges on top of a karaoke sign, blinking slowly at passersby as if guarding its territory of music and spilled dreams.
Hana tugs my sleeve. “Mama, look.”
She points to a narrow side street where red lanterns sway above a row of tiny bars. The street is washed in warm light, quiet except for the soft clinking of glasses behind sliding doors. It feels strange—intimate yet welcoming, like peeking into a world usually reserved for adults. But tonight it seems to make space for us, too.
“Can we go there?” she asks.
“Not inside,” I say. “But we can walk past.”
So we do. And as we pass, a bartender polishing glasses pauses to wave at Hana through the open window. She returns the wave with solemn importance, as though accepting a diplomatic gesture from a foreign land.
By the time we loop back toward the main intersection, the famous Nikka Whiskey sign flickers above us, its giant, bearded mascot raising a glass. Hana stares at him for a long moment.
“He looks like he knows secrets,” she says.
“He probably does,” I reply.
We stop at a convenience store for hot cocoa. I place the warm can in her hands, and she exhales softly, letting the heat seep into her palms. Around us, Susukino continues its restless dance—voices rising, engines rumbling, lights spinning stories on every surface. Yet in this small moment, the world feels still.
As we wait for the crosswalk to change, Hana leans her head against my arm. “I like it here at night,” she murmurs. “It feels like the city is awake just for us.”
I look around—at the glowing signs, the shifting crowds, the undercurrent of energy that hums through every alley—and think she might be right. Susukino can be many things, but tonight it is simply a place where a mother and her daughter walk safely together, bathed in neon, discovering slivers of gentleness hidden inside the noise.
When we finally head toward the station, Hana skips ahead, her shadow stretching long behind her, dancing across pavement lit by colors that don’t exist anywhere else.
And for a moment, Susukino is ours.