on a narrow ceramics-quarter street in the Gojo district, a low render wall running to her left, a shallow shop window directly in front of her filled with stoneware pieces each casting its own soft shadow on white cloth, the wet stone pavement reflecting the window's pale interior light back upward, the street otherwise empty, rain coming in fine and steady — stopped outside the closed shop window, not moving, gaze fixed on one piece inside — four minutes of stillness before the shop opens
The cup has a weight that sits differently in the left hand than the right.
on a rain-wet lane in the Shimizu-michi ceramics quarter, a low rendered wall running diagonally behind her toward a bend in the street, the wet pavement in the foreground acting as a mirror — her reflection and the wall's grey surface folding together in the standing water, the rain now steady enough to pit the reflection into noise — stopped mid-walk with the wrapped paper parcel shifting from right hand to left — the transfer caught at the exact moment the parcel is held by both hands simultaneously, weight undecided
I found that out on the walk back to the guesthouse — shifting the paper parcel between hands while the rain came in off the Kamo, light enough to ignore, steady enough to matter. The potter had let me hold three before I chose. He didn't explain them. That was the right decision.
a single ceramic cup on a display ledge, seen through rain-beaded glass, its shadow splitting against the pale wall behind it
I was at Gojo before eight. The ceramics quarter has a particular quality in the rain — display pieces visible through glass, each one with its own shadow, the street empty enough that my footsteps had somewhere to go. I wore the linen loose because it was early and the street was still mine. A cat on a low wall watched me stop outside one window for what must have been four minutes. I wasn't buying yet. I was just deciding what I was looking at.
The shop opened at nine. I put the blazer on before I went in. Something about buying from someone who actually made the thing.
inside a small ceramics workshop and shop in the Gojo quarter, a low wooden counter between her and the potter, shelves of raw stoneware rising behind him, the room compressed and smelling of clay dust and old wood, a single paper-shaded pendant bulb hanging above the counter — the wrapping just done — she has completed the final cord tuck herself, hands still on the parcel, the potter's gaze on her hands, neither of them speaking
The potter was not young. He didn't ask what I'd use it for. I paid, he wrapped it in off-white paper and a length of soft cord, and I did the final tuck myself while he watched. He didn't correct me.
a cat's vacated impression — a dry oval patch on the wet stone wall where an animal was sitting until moments ago, surrounded by rain-dark surface
The Haruka left at eleven-twelve. I changed the top half at the guesthouse before I left — kept the trousers, changed the rest. Some continuity is the point.
On the train I looked at the blossoms once. From the window, passing a river I didn't catch the name of. Pink against flat grey sky. Everyone else on the carriage was also looking.
cherry blossom against flat grey sky, seen through rain-streaked train glass — the image fractured slightly by water tracks running diagonally across the window
Then I looked at the cup wrapped in my bag.
The cord the potter used had one small stain near the end. Old ink, maybe. I hadn't noticed it in the shop.
What she wore
day5-scene1
I wore the linen shirt loose because it was early and the street was still mine and there was no reason yet to be fully assembled.
day5-scene2
The blazer went on when the shop opened — not because it was cold, but because buying something from a potter who actually made it felt like an occasion that deserved one good layer.
day5-scene3
I changed the top before the Haruka because I wanted to feel like I was still making decisions, even at the end — the trousers stayed because some continuity is the point.