The Lanterns of Kyoto – Part 1: Lantern Shop on Shijo

The lantern shop was on a narrow street off Shijō, between a shop selling pickled plums and a tiny temple with a bell that rang only at dusk. The sign above the door was faded, the paint peeling in long curls, and the shutters were closed.

Sakura stood in front of it for a long time, her suitcase at her feet and a faded photograph in her hand.

In the photograph, a young woman in a white apron stood in front of this same door, laughing, a half-finished red lantern in her arms. On the back, in her grandmother's careful brushstrokes: Shijō, 1961. With Takeshi, who was never on time.

The shop had been Takeshi's, her grandmother had told her once. The lantern maker who taught her to fold paper and paint the rice-paper glow. And then the years had come, and the shop had closed, and nobody had talked about it since.

She knocked. Nothing happened. She knocked again, louder.

The shutter slid open with a clatter, and a man's head appeared in the gap. He had dark hair tied back, paper dust on his cheekbones and a surprised frown.

"We're closed," he said, in careful English.

"I'm sorry," said Sakura. "I'm looking for Takeshi. Takeshi Hayashi. He made lanterns here, a long time ago."

The man's face changed slowly, his frown softening into something warmer and more uncertain.

"That was my father," he said. "He died six years ago. I'm Daichi. I still make the lanterns, in his workshop, the way he taught me."

Sakura's heart jumped. She held up the photograph.

Daichi took it from her hands, very gently, and studied it. His breath caught.

"That's my father's shop," he said. "And that's—"

"My grandmother," said Sakura. "Her name was Hana. She was a translator, like me. She used to say your father was never on time."

Daichi laughed, a short, startled sound that broke into something softer.

"He was never on time," he said. "Not for anything. Not even for his own wedding."

"Did he finish the lantern?"

"He finished every lantern," said Daichi. "But he never finished the one he made for her. He kept it on the shelf in the back room, half-painted, for forty years."

Sakura's throat tightened. "May I see it?"

Daichi hesitated. Then he slid the shutter fully open and stepped back, holding out his hand.

"Come in," he said. "I'll make you tea. The lantern can wait, but the tea shouldn't."

The shop was dim and quiet, smelling of paper, bamboo and old incense. Lanterns hung from the beams in soft, faded colours, and on a low shelf in the back room, under a dust sheet, was a red lantern with one side painted in pale pink cherry blossoms and the other side still bare.

Daichi lifted the sheet with great care.

"He was waiting for her," he said quietly. "And she never came back."

Sakura felt tears prick at her eyes. She reached out and touched the bare paper, softly, the way her grandmother might have.

"Can I ask you something?" said Daichi, behind her.

"Yes."

"Would you like to stay in Kyoto for a while, and help me finish it? Not as a translator. As someone who knows the story. I'd like to paint the other side, if you'll let me."

Sakura turned to face him. He was standing very still in the dim light, his hands clasped, his expression open and uncertain.

"Yes," she said. "But only if you tell me the rest of the story. Every word of it."

"Deal," said Daichi softly, and his mouth curved into a small, shy smile.