First Light, Haneda

The plane lands before the city wakes. We taxi past rows of silent Cathay and ANA liveries, and the sky over Haneda is the colour of old linen — pale, pressed, slightly warm. Outside, the humidity lifts my shirt off my back in a single breath.

Immigration is unhurried. The officer stamps the passport with the gentle gravity of a man finishing a letter, and we are through. The Keikyū line hums in from the platform edge, seats upholstered in a tweed that would look indulgent anywhere but here. A small boy across the aisle watches the tunnel lights pass without blinking.

Shinagawa arrives in a blur of signage I half-remember. The coffee shop on the concourse sells hand drip by weight and the barista measures the beans as carefully as a jeweller. I drink it leaning against the counter while the city outside begins its daily accumulation of sound.

By the time we find the apartment in Kuramae the cherry blossoms have already turned — late for them, a week early for us. Petals drift across the pavement in a wind I can't feel. We set the bags down, open the window, and listen to the Sumida River carry the afternoon away.