A different kind of silence.

Before the first trains arrive, the town belongs to the birds. A shopkeeper sweeps the step outside her door. Beyond the rooftops, Fuji rises into a sky the colour of porcelain.

Travel here is a practice in noticing. The steam rising from a bowl of noodles, the soft sound of footsteps through a temple courtyard, the change in light beneath the blossom trees.

We follow small roads rather than a list of landmarks. By evening, the places we remember best are the ones we never meant to find.