On the last night, she sat on the edge of a quiet lake in Hakone. The water was black glass, reflecting a million stars. She realized that for her whole life, she’d been waiting for someone to hold her hand, to tell her the way, to laugh at the joke so she knew it was funny.
In a tiny hostel in Osaka, she met an old woman who spoke no English. Jia spoke no Japanese. Yet, for two hours, they drank tea, drew pictures in a notebook, and laughed until their stomachs hurt. The woman drew a single flower on a page and pointed at Jia. Alone, but not lonely. Jia kept the drawing in her wallet. jia lissa travelling alone
On the third day, she got lost in the bamboo groves of Arashiyama. Her phone had died. For a panicked minute, her heart raced. She was a speck in a green, whispering forest. But then she stopped. She listened to the creak of the ancient stalks, the hush of the wind. She found her way out using the sun, a skill she didn’t know she had. On the last night, she sat on the
You are capable, she whispered to herself. In a tiny hostel in Osaka, she met
But here, alone, she had held her own hand. She had found her own way. She had laughed at her own private jokes.
Jia smiled, looking at the stars. For the first time, she heard the sound of her own wheels rolling over the earth. And it was the most beautiful music she’d ever known.