I am on a morning train in Japan, traveling from Tokyo to Kyoto without any hurry to get there. The shinkansen is quiet. There are empty seats on both sides of the aisle. I am seated by the window on the left. The glass is slightly blurred, with thin streaks of dried rain. The air conditioning hums overhead. I take out my tablet and try to read, but I am not really following the words. The train moves quickly past factories, houses, schools, and open fields.
Mount Fuji appears in the distance. Clouds cover parts of it, but the top is still visible, white against a pale blue sky. At its base, the forest is dark and still. We pass rows of apartments. Laundry hangs outside, moving gently in the morning air. An ojisan adjusts his plants on a balcony. A woman walks slowly with a toddler, a shopping bag in her hand. Inside, a staff member pushes a cart down the aisle. The smell of food lingers faintly, a mix of sweet and savory. I reach into my bag for my notebook and pen. I pause and swallow.
I tend to stay with these small scenes longer than I need to. The man on the balcony. The woman and her child. The laundry moving in the same direction. I do not know them, but my mind fills in details without effort. Who they might be. What their days look like. How their lives move within these spaces I only pass through. This has been true for as long as I can remember.
People sometimes say I have a good memory. I can recall certain moments from a distant past with more detail than expected. I have always treated it as ordinary, something I do not pay much attention to. But it is not only memory. When I pass places I have never been before, I find myself imagining the lives inside them. A row of houses is no longer just a row of houses. It becomes a set of possible lives, each one carrying its routines and concerns and small moments no one else sees.
I do not do this intentionally. It happens without effort. The same way I noticed the man moving his plants, or the way the laundry shifts in the wind. I do not stop to question it. I stay with what is in front of me a little longer than I need to.
Because of this, I remember more than I expect to. Not everything. Just certain details that remain clear. A place. A movement. Something small that stays when I return to it later.
The train continues forward. Outside, the scenery changes without pause. Inside, I sit by the window, watching, and then writing it down before it fades.
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