I had seen big cities before.
But Tokyo was different.
From the top of Tokyo Tower, the city seemed to stretch forever — concrete and glass disappearing toward the horizon in every direction. Buildings crowded against buildings. Roads threaded between them. Skyscrapers rose beyond skyscrapers until eventually they dissolved into haze.
It was difficult to understand the scale of it.
A concrete jungle in the truest sense.
And yet, we had arrived in April.
Cherry blossom season.
Against all that steel and stone were these impossibly delicate flowers. Pale pink branches spilling over walkways and gathering around temples and parks, petals drifting through a city that otherwise seemed built entirely from harder things.
I was only in Tokyo for a day, on a long layover, so what I carried away was more impression than understanding.
The enormity of it.
The movement.
And those blossoms.
Years later, when I began thinking about Tokyo in spring, I found myself imagining the city in the rain.
I pictured the concrete darkening beneath a soft shower. Pavement shining beneath streetlights. Cherry petals sticking to wet, gray stone and collecting along the edges of sidewalks. The scent of rain rising from the city while pink blossoms fluttered overhead.
Somewhere nearby, steam rises from a cup of green tea.
Hinoki lends its quiet, woody warmth.
And for a little while, the city feels different.
Still enormous. Still moving.
But softened.
As though spring and rain had conspired, just for an afternoon, to quiet one of the biggest cities in the world.
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