In Kobe, the sea doesn’t shout.
It whispers—gently, stubbornly, like a memory that won’t let go.
I used to walk there after midnight,
when the city folds into itself
and even the vending machines sigh in blue.
What makes a person unique?
It’s not the loud moments,
not the accolades stacked like empty coffee cans.
It’s in the silent rituals—
how someone folds their umbrella before the rain stops.
How they hesitate before turning a page.
The kind of jazz they play when no one is listening.
I once met a woman at the port who collected cracked teacups.
She told me,
“Imperfections make room for stories.”
I didn’t ask what she meant.
Some things aren’t meant to be chased.
They should trail behind you like a shy cat.
In Kobe, the air smells like salt and memory.
You carry both without knowing.
Sometimes, what sets you apart is simply
how you carry the quiet things.
The songs you hum under your breath.
The people you remember when you’re alone.
The wounds you never hide but somehow still dance with.
Like the city itself—
half light, half shadow,
always a little broken,
always completely whole.
life 
Leave a comment