A few weeks ago, while using the restroom at the station's shopping street, I suddenly noticed the water from the tap had turned warm. That's when it hit me—Japan's scorching summer had passed.
When I used to visit Japan as a tourist, I always encountered the season at its peak—the fluttering pink cherry blossoms or the fiery red maple leaves, those moving scenes that stir the heart. But now, as a resident, I've come to appreciate the subtle shifts "in between" through everyday life. Without noticing, the cicadas' summer chorus has gradually faded, and while walking down the street, I catch the faint fragrance of osmanthus flowers. The leaves haven't turned red yet, but the scent of autumn has already begun to spread.
Lately, after lunch, I've been taking walks to gather my thoughts. I live on the busier side of the station, but I usually cross through the station corridor to the other side, where the atmosphere feels more residential. At some point, outdoor tables and chairs appeared along the street. Sometimes I buy a cup of hot tea and sit outside, watching the leisurely passersby and buses, jotting down whatever comes to mind in my notebook to sort through my thoughts. It's hard to imagine being able to sit outside so comfortably during summer. All of this quietly signals that the gears of the seasons are slowly turning.
Though I love cherry blossoms and autumn leaves, these subtle changes "in between" are equally enchanting.