冬の息
霜の下で根はぬくく
春は音もなく待つ
(fuyu no iki / shimo no shita de ne wa nukuku / haru wa oto mo naku matsu)
Winter breath whispers / beneath the frost, roots are warm / spring waits without sound
sound of rain sliding down an old radio antenna
then the slow click of a reel beginning to spin
Aya: You ever notice how life never asks before it changes seasons? One day you wake up, and the air just feels… different.
Ryo: (soft chuckle) Yeah. That’s how you know autumn’s coming. You can smell woodsmoke before anyone lights the fire.
Aya: I used to think change happened overnight. Now I think it’s more like the tide. You don’t see it shifting, but when you look again, the shoreline’s already moved.
Ryo: (pause) I like that. That’s the quiet kind of change—the kind that doesn’t make announcements.
The sound fades into a low hum of wind. You can almost hear the room they’re sitting in—a small recording studio somewhere outside Kyoto. Tatami underfoot, a narrow window framing a persimmon tree that has already lost half its leaves. Somewhere nearby, a kettle begins to sigh.
Aya: You once said something I wrote down in my notebook: always prepare for winter.
Ryo: (smiling through his voice) I say that to myself more than to others. Every time life feels too easy, I remind myself winter will come again.
Aya: And how do you prepare?
Ryo: By remembering that summer doesn’t last. By storing light, not in a bottle, but in memory. Watch how the sun falls across a table. Remember the laughter from a night you didn’t want to end. Those are provisions for winter.
Aya: So when the cold comes—
Ryo: —you’re not surprised. You’ve already gathered enough warmth to survive it.
They pause. You can hear the soft sound of porcelain meeting wood.
Aya: But isn’t that sad? Knowing every good season will end?
Ryo: (gently) Only if you think endings are thefts. They’re really just handoffs. Winter takes what summer leaves behind. Spring borrows from both.
Aya: Like chapters of the same book.
Ryo: Or breaths of the same life.
Silence again—the kind that feels awake, not empty. A heater hums in the background. The floor creaks softly beneath them.
Aya: I had a winter once. A long one. I’d just moved to Basel. The days were short, my thoughts shorter. I used to walk along the Rhine every morning, even when fog made it look like the world had erased itself.
Ryo: And what brought you out?
Aya: A man selling chestnuts by the bridge. He had a small cart, a radio that played old Italian songs, and steam rising around him like a halo. I bought a bag every morning just to see his face. I think that’s how spring began.
Ryo: That’s it. Spring always starts small. A smell, a sound, a stranger who smiles.
The kettle clicks off. Tea is poured into two cups.
Ryo: You know, people forget that autumn and spring are the most important seasons. Not because they’re beautiful—but because they teach transition. Summer and winter are extremes. But autumn teaches how to let go. Spring teaches how to begin again.
Aya: You sound like a monk.
Ryo: I’m just old enough to have repeated mistakes. The seasons are patient teachers. You either listen, or you freeze.
Aya: (laughs softly) I guess I’m still learning to listen.
A slow jazz track hums underneath their voices now, the kind that could have been recorded decades ago—just a bass line, a faint snare, air thick with nostalgia.
Ryo: You know why they’re called seasons? Because they’re seasonal. They’re not meant to last. Every winter will be followed by spring. Every summer by autumn. The cycle keeps us humble.
Aya: So the point isn’t to fight the seasons. It’s to notice them.
Ryo: Exactly. You don’t need to control them. Just know where you are, and dress accordingly.
Aya: (smiling) Emotionally or literally?
Ryo: Both. Bring a coat, either way.
The jazz fades. You hear the sound of a door sliding open—the outside world slipping in: a sparrow on the eaves, soft footsteps, the smell of rain turning to soil.
Aya: When I was younger, I used to hate endings. Now I collect them. Photos, scents, half-filled notebooks. They remind me I’ve lived.
Ryo: That’s the secret of wabi-sabi. Beauty isn’t in the beginning or the middle. It’s in the evidence of time. The chip on the bowl, the fading ink, the quiet after laughter. Those are seasonal too.
Aya: Do you ever wish the seasons would stop?
Ryo: No. Without change, there’s no rhythm. Without rhythm, there’s no music.
Aya: (whispering) No life, either.
The rain slows. You can hear one of them exhale.
Ryo: When life gets heavy, remember this: every season carries the seed of the next. Even your hardest winter contains a hidden spring. You just have to survive long enough to see it bloom.
Aya: (softly) I’ll remember that.
The tape clicks. Static seeps in like snow.
Ryo: We don’t control the seasons. We just walk through them.
Aya: And if we walk slow enough, maybe we’ll finally notice the flowers growing through the cracks.
life 