Beyond the bright Japan everyone knows, there exists another one, made of stone, lanterns, and rain.
There, small gods dwell, along with stories no one writes down.
Away from tourists and noise, that Japan opens itself only to those who walk slowly and listen with me.
Deep in Kyoto, beyond the tourist paths, there exists a silent and ancient Japan.
There, among forgotten temples and forests that breathe mist, live stories written in no guidebook.
Separated from the noise of the city, they wait in hills and shrines sleeping beneath moss.
A small river of lanterns lights the way, carrying whispers from the past.
It is sacred ground, where gentle steps open invisible doors.
Even modernity, bright and hurried, cannot extinguish what remains alive there.