The Lanterns of Kyoto – Part 2: The Other Side

They worked through the autumn. Sakura sat at the low workbench in the back room while Daichi mixed the colours, the pigments ground fine in a stone bowl and mixed with a drop of glue. The brushes were old and worn, the bristles soft from years of use.

"My father used the same brush for every lantern," said Daichi, handing her one. "He said it had memorised his hand."

"Then it's memorised mine too," said Sakura, and dipped it in the pale pink.

The bare side of the lantern was slowly coming alive. A branch of cherry blossom, delicate and bright, curving across the paper. Then a second branch, leaning towards the first, as if the two were reaching for each other across a river.

"That's her," said Daichi, watching quietly from the stool beside her.

"It's the way she used to draw," said Sakura. "Always leaning, always looking for the light."

Daichi was quiet for a while, watching the brush move.

"Can I tell you something about my father?" he said at last.

"Yes."

"He was very serious about his work. He never laughed in the workshop. But every evening, after he closed the shutters, he'd sit at this bench and hum a song from the sixties, very badly, and tell me stories about the woman who used to sit where you are now."

Sakura's breath caught. "Did he tell you her name?"

"Hana," said Daichi softly. "He called her the girl who got every sentence right in two languages and wrong in the third, on purpose."

"That sounds like her."

"You sound like her too," said Daichi, and his voice was warm.

They talked as they painted, through long afternoons and quiet evenings. About the translation job Sakura had left in Tokyo. About the years Daichi had spent learning the craft in his father's shadow, never quite sure whether he was allowed to make lanterns of his own. About the friends in Kyoto who had asked him to close the shop and sell the building, and the reasons he had refused.

"Because the shop is where my father is," said Daichi quietly. "And because I'm not ready to stop making something he didn't finish."

"Then finish it with me," said Sakura. "Let's paint the last petal together."

By the time the leaves had turned deep red in the temple gardens, the lantern was finished. The blossoms curved across the paper in soft, luminous pink and white, and at the very top, in fine, careful brushstrokes, Sakura had written two names: Hana and Takeshi. And beneath them, in Daichi's neat hand, a third: Sakura, who came back.

Sakura stared at it for a long time, her throat tight.

"Can I ask you something?" said Daichi, very gently, standing beside her in the lamplight.

"Yes."

"Would you like to stay in Kyoto? Not only for the lantern. For the workshop, and the mornings, and the long evenings with the bad music and the good brushes?"

Sakura turned to him. His face was open, a little shy, and entirely honest in the warm glow of the lamp.

"Yes," she said. "But can I ask you something back?"

"Anything."

"Would you kiss me, here, in front of the finished lantern? Because I think my grandmother would have wanted to see it, and I'd like her to see us too."

Daichi laughed softly, his eyes wet. "Yes," he said. "And if you want me to stop, I'll stop, and we'll hang the lantern in the window where the whole street can see it."

"Good," said Sakura, and stepped closer.

He kissed her slowly, his hand resting gently against her cheek, the taste of green tea and paint on his lips. The lamp flickered, and the lantern glowed faintly in the dark room, its painted blossoms bright against the paper, and the bell from the little temple rang once across the quiet street outside.

When they parted, both of them were smiling through tears.

"Green?" he asked softly.

"Green," said Sakura. "Very green. Now hang it up, Daichi. Let's show the street what Takeshi was waiting for."

Together they lifted the lantern and carried it to the window, and when the light came on from inside, the whole narrow street of Shijō seemed to glow a little warmer, a little brighter, as if someone very old and very patient had finally been let in.