青いキモノのドレスを着た女性が道に立っている。

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the bustling streets of Kyoto. Amidst the throng of tourists and locals, one figure stood out—a young woman in her twenties, draped in a striking blue kimono. The fabric shimmered like the surface of a tranquil lake, adorned with delicate cherry blossoms that seemed to dance with the breeze. Her name was Aiko, and on this particular evening, she was both a part of the world and apart from it.

Aiko had always loved kimonos. They were not just garments to her; they were stories woven into fabric, each stitch echoing the whispers of her ancestors. Tonight, however, the blue kimono held a special significance. It was a gift from her grandmother, a symbol of her family’s heritage, and she wore it with pride as she prepared for the annual cherry blossom festival.

As she stood on the corner of Shijo Avenue, a wave of nostalgia washed over her. The festival was