The Space Between

At the shrine gate,

one pair of sandals

waits in the rain.

No footsteps.

Only the red of the torii

darkening with water.

At the station,

the last train leaves

without a goodbye.

One seat remains warm.

No one sits there.

The announcement says

something I cannot understand,

then becomes silent.

In the old house,

there are six cushions

around the table.

Five cups of tea.

One untouched.

The steam disappears

slowly,

as if it has somewhere

else to go.

In spring,

the cherry trees bloom

without asking who is watching.

Petals fall

onto an empty bicycle.

One petal.

Another.

Then the whole path

is covered with things

that used to be flowers.

My grandmother's room

still smells of incense.

Her clock stopped

at 3:17.

Nobody has repaired it.

Nobody wants to.

Sometimes,

in the evening,

I think I hear her

sliding open the door.

I don't turn around.

There are some sounds

that become smaller

when you name them.

At the summer festival,

lanterns float above the street.

Children laugh.

Taiko drums echo

between the houses.

But there is one place

where nobody stands.

One space

between two people.

One empty place

where a hand

could have been held.

The music continues.

The fireworks rise.

For a moment,

the entire sky is filled with light.

And then—

nothing.

No firework.

No sound.

Only smoke

slowly disappearing

into the night.

Perhaps this is what we call absence:

not an empty room,

but the shape

someone left behind.

Not silence,

but the sound

that should have come next.

Not forgetting,

but remembering

without saying the name.

So I leave the door open.

I leave one cup

on the table.

I leave one space

beside me

on the train.

Not because I expect

someone to return.

But because some things

are too important

to fill.

And sometimes,

the emptiness

is the only place

where they can still exist.