They call her kurino ko—the chestnut girl.
Not her real name, of course. But locals and vendors along the narrow lanes of Miyajima Island know her by the kuri hoiroki (chestnut roasting machine) in front of the shop where she works and the stacks of roasted chestnuts wrapped in brown paper, still steaming as the deer approach with hopeful eyes.
Every morning before the sun climbs over Mt. Misen, she walks through the mist, sweeping leaves from the path in front of her stall. Tourists from Osaka and Fukuoka pass by, en route to Itsukushima Shrine with its floating torii gate, pausing when they smell the chestnuts. She greets them with a bow and a bright “Irasshaimase!” and they often smile, surprised by her charm.
Some take her photo. Others ask her questions in broken Japanese or soft English. She just laughs. Her laughter is round and warm, like a roasted nut cracking open.
In the evenings, after the lanterns flicker on and the tourist tide recedes, she sits by the sea, legs crossed, the sky darkening behind the shrine’s red silhouette. She eats the last of the chestnuts, peeling them slowly, watching the waves like they’re trying to speak.
She doesn’t dream of leaving the island. Not yet. She likes the way the wind smells like salt and incense. She likes the sound of geta on stone, the rattle of the ferry, the far-off clang of the shrine bell. She wants only to learn how to roast chestnuts just right, so their skin peels easily and their heat stays soft at the center.
The island is small.
But to her, it holds a thousand stories.
And she, the chestnut girl, is quietly becoming one of them.