Under the Sakura Moon

Under the Sakura Moon

The day dissolves like watercolour into evening, and the mountain village settles beneath a sky painted in amber and rose. Cherry trees line the narrow streets, their branches heavy with blossoms that glow softly in the fading light. Each tree stands like a cloud touched to earth, petals drifting on the warm air with the unhurried grace of snow that has forgotten winter.

The cobbled path begins at the edge of silence, where the last sounds of day—a distant temple bell, the rustle of bamboo, the soft closing of a wooden door—fade into the deeper quiet of dusk. Here, at this threshold between light and shadow, a figure steps forward. Perhaps it is you, perhaps it is no-one at all, perhaps it is everyone who has ever walked beneath blossoming trees and felt the world exhale around them.

The stones beneath your feet are smooth and worn, polished by centuries of footsteps, by rain and wind and the patient passage of seasons. Each step echoes softly, then fades into the hush that seems to rise from the earth itself. The air carries the scent of cherry blossoms—sweet and faint, like the memory of honey—mixed with the deeper fragrances of wood smoke and wet stone.

Above, the branches arch and sway, creating a canopy that filters the dying light into patterns of gold and green. Petals fall continuously, soundlessly, some catching briefly on your shoulders or hair before spiralling to the ground. The path ahead curves gently, disappearing around a corner where lanterns wait to be lit, where the deeper mysteries of evening prepare to unfold.

The village breathes around you…