In the quiet mountain town of Takayama, where mist drapes over cedar trees like a silk kimono, lived a 14-year-old girl named Aiko. Her world was small — framed by her family’s ryokan (traditional inn), the temple bells each morning, and the soft whisper of the Hida River.
Aiko’s grandmother, Obaa-chan, had once been a celebrated koto player in Kyoto. Her koto, carved from aged paulownia wood, sat untouched in the tatami room. Aiko would often sneak in, sliding the shoji doors silently, to trace the strings with her fingers, but she had never dared to play.
“You must listen to the silence before you create sound,” Obaa-chan once said.
One spring afternoon during hanami, tourists filled the ryokan. Aiko overheard a guest say, “There’s no music here, only silence.” It struck her strangely, as if the spirit of the koto whispered to her.
That night, when the moon hung low and pink petals drifted like snow, Aiko crept to the tatami room. Her fingers trembled. The first note she plucked was shy, but warm. Then another. Slowly, the air filled with the echo of forgotten songs.
Obaa-chan, unseen, watched from the doorway, tears in her eyes.
From that moment on, Aiko played every evening. Guests paused, enchanted. Silence still lived in Takayama — but now, it had a voice.
