The silhouettes were walking in front of the shutters of a store that would have been built before the war

I was walking along Asakusa-dori Avenue, from Ueno to Asakusa. The sunlight was gentle, but at the bottom of it, there was a sense of strength, like the remnants of summer. In this kind of light in the late afternoon, the steps of people walking along the street also become somewhat lighter. Even one's own feet seem to be lifted by the light.

On the other side of the street, a building caught my eye. The building, with its solid stone exterior, at first glance looked like just another old store, but upon closer inspection, its face seemed to have the deep wrinkles that only those who have survived the long haul can see. It was easy to guess that it was built before the war, and it is not hard to imagine that it must have survived the war damage. It was as if the traces of the history that this town has borne were seeping into every nook and cranny of the buildings.

There are still many such buildings scattered throughout the area. They are invisible to the eye, but they certainly seem to carry the memory of this land. However, the teahouse in front of me had closed its shutters. The inorganic iron curtains were down, blocking out the activities that this building once carried out, as if the past had been cut out of it. It was not just silence, but rather silence itself.

At that moment, figures crossed the street in front of the store. The figures stood out for a moment in the backlight, then quickly dissolved back into the light. Even after the shadows disappeared, there seemed to be something left in the air in front of the building. It was as if the activities of the many people that this building had once watched took shape for a brief moment in the shadows.

The buildings dotting Asakusa-dori are not mere relics. They pose a silent question to visitors. What has this town lost and what has it kept? What have these buildings seen?

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