Chapter 6: Lanterns and Separate Rooms

"First things first," Minaki declares, a playful glint in her eye. "We need a place to stay."

My stomach gives a nervous lurch. The practicalities of this impulsive trip are suddenly crashing down on me. A hotel. With her. The thought sends a jolt of anxiety and something else-something I am afraid to name-through me.

But Minaki handles it with the same effortless grace she does everything else. She leads me not to one of the large, impersonal chain hotels, but down a series of quiet side streets to a traditional Japanese inn, a ryokan. It is a beautiful, two-story wooden building with a tiled roof, paper screen windows, and a small, meticulously raked gravel garden at the entrance.

An older woman in a kimono greets us with a deep, respectful bow. Minaki speaks to her in fluent, polite Japanese, her tone and mannerisms shifting to match the traditional setting. I stand by awkwardly, feeling like a clumsy foreigner in my own country.

After a brief, quiet conversation, the woman nods and smiles. Minaki turns to me. "It is settled. They have two rooms available."

Two rooms. The relief that washes over me is so intense it almost makes me dizzy. It is immediately followed by a pang of something that feels suspiciously like disappointment. I quickly squash it. This is for the best. It keeps things simple, uncomplicated.

"Two rooms is good," I say, my voice coming out a little too quickly.

Minaki just smiles, that enigmatic smile that gives nothing away. "Of course. We need our own space to rest."

The innkeeper leads us down a polished wooden hallway that smells of tatami mats and old wood. My room is simple but beautiful. The floor is covered with tatami, a low wooden table sits in the center with floor cushions, and a set of sliding paper screens opens onto a small, private balcony that overlooks a tranquil moss garden. A neatly folded futon is tucked away in a closet, ready to be laid out for the night. It is the most peaceful space I have ever been in.

Minaki's room is next door. "I will meet you out front in half an hour?" she suggests. "We can explore Gion before it gets dark."

I nod, and she disappears into her room, sliding the screen shut behind her. I am left alone in the silence, the only sound the gentle dripping of a bamboo water feature in the garden below. I slide open the screen to my balcony and step out, breathing in the cool, clean air.

This is real. I am in Kyoto. In a beautiful ryokan. With a girl who feels like she has stepped out of a dream. My life has been turned completely upside down in the span of forty-eight hours. The Juiro who has stood on that bridge, ready to end it all, feels like a different person, a distant, tragic figure from a story I have read.

True to her word, Minaki is waiting for me half an hour later. As dusk begins to settle, we walk to the Gion district, the famous geisha district of Kyoto. The streets are narrow, lined with traditional wooden machiya houses. Paper lanterns, glowing with a soft, warm light, are hung outside every establishment, casting long, dancing shadows on the stone-paved streets.

The atmosphere is magical, like stepping back in time. We walk in a comfortable silence, soaking it all in. The world feels soft-focused, imbued with a sense of history and mystery.

"It is beautiful," I whisper, afraid to speak too loudly, as if it might break the spell.

"I knew you would like it," Minaki says, her voice a soft murmur beside me.

As we turn a corner, we are lucky enough to spot a maiko, an apprentice geisha, hurrying down the street. She is a vision in her vibrant, ornate kimono, her face painted a stark, traditional white, her wooden sandals, okobo, making a distinctive clacking sound on the pavement. She moves with a grace and poise that is mesmerizing. She glances our way for a fleeting second, her expression neutral, before disappearing into a teahouse.

The encounter leaves me breathless. It is a glimpse into a hidden, elegant world.

"She looked like a doll," I say, once she is gone.

"They are living works of art," Minaki corrects gently. "Their whole life is dedicated to discipline and beauty."

We continue our walk, eventually finding our way to the Yasaka Shrine at the end of the street. It is illuminated by hundreds of lanterns, each bearing the name of a local business in black calligraphy. The effect is stunning, a sea of glowing orbs against the dark, imposing structure of the shrine.

We stand before the main hall, the air thick with the scent of incense. I watch as people throw coins into the offering box, clap their hands twice, and bow their heads in prayer. I have nothing to pray for, or rather, I have too much, I would not know where to begin.

Minaki, however, steps forward. She tosses a coin, claps her hands with a sharp, clear sound, and closes her eyes, her expression serene. I wonder what she is praying for. Is she praying for peace? For an escape from the sadness that has led her to that bridge? Or is she praying for something else entirely?

When she is done, she turns to me, a soft smile on her lips. "Shall we get some dinner?"

We find a small restaurant serving obanzai, Kyoto-style home cooking. We sit at the counter and eat a delicious meal of small, flavorful dishes-simmered vegetables, grilled fish, silky tofu. It is simple, healthy, and incredibly satisfying.

Throughout the evening, I feel myself opening up, bit by bit. I tell her about my civil engineering studies, about the concepts I find interesting before the apathy has set in. She listens intently, asking thoughtful questions, making me feel like my passions, however buried, are still valid.

She, in turn, remains a mystery. She speaks of places, of feelings, of art and poetry, but never of herself. Her past is a locked room, and I do not have the key. But I find that I do not mind. I am content to just be in her presence, to let her guide me through this new, beautiful world she has opened up for me.

When we return to the ryokan, the innkeeper has already laid out our futons. The soft, clean bedding looks incredibly inviting.

We stand in the hallway between our two rooms. The silence stretches, no longer just comfortable, but charged with a new, unspoken tension.

"Thank you for today," I say, my voice a little rough. "It was the best day I have had in a very long time."

"I am glad," Minaki says, her violet eyes searching my face in the dim light of the hallway lantern. "I enjoyed it too, Juiro."

For a moment, I think she might say something more. I think I might say something more. The space between us feels electric. But the moment passes.

"Well," she says, her voice soft. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Minaki."

She slides her door shut, and I slide mine. I stand in the middle of my room, my heart pounding. The decision for separate rooms has been the right one, the sensible one. But as I lie down on my futon, the scent of fresh tatami filling my senses, I cannot help but feel the presence of the thin paper screen that separates us. It is a fragile boundary, a symbol of the careful, tentative dance we are engaged in. And I know, with a certainty that both thrills and terrifies me, that it will not hold forever.