The morning we left Kyoto, the sky was pale and washed clean from a light rain in the night. I could still smell it in the air when we stepped outside, the kind of scent that clung to stone and wood longer than it did to the leaves. Julian carried our small suitcases, and I had the silk roll tucked carefully under my arm. It was not finished, but it felt like something I wanted to keep close, the way you hold a thought you are not ready to say aloud.

Kyoto Station was already alive with ...