A short story about slowing down in Japan.
Aki was tired.
Not just sleepy tired, but heart-tired.
Tired of long subway rides. Tired of city lights that never go out.
Tired of always running, but never arriving.
She worked in Tokyo, in a tall building full of screens and noise.
Every day felt the same. Emails. Deadlines. Cold coffee.
One evening, her phone rang.
It was her grandmother.
“Can you help me prune the plum tree?” she asked.
Just that.
No pressure. No guilt.
Aki paused. Then she said yes.
She packed one suitcase.
Took a quiet train south.
And when she stepped off in a small village near Kyoto, it felt like the air itself was slower.
Her grandmother’s house was old.
Wooden floors. Paper doors. The smell of tatami and tea.
The next morning, Aki woke up to birds. No alarms.
Her grandmother had already started boiling water.
They sat on the floor, sipping green tea. No rush. No talking.
Just the steam rising, and the soft clink of ceramic cups.
Days turned into weeks.
They trimmed the plum tree.
They hung laundry in the sun.
They walked to the market and bought fresh tofu.
Some days, they didn’t do much at all.
And that was okay.
Aki started to sleep better.
She smiled more.
She stopped checking her phone every five minutes.
One evening, she said to her grandmother,
“Thank you for calling me.”
Her grandmother smiled and poured more tea.
“You looked tired,” she said.
“I knew the tree would help.”
Now, every morning, Aki boils water slowly.
She listens to it hum and rise.
And she remembers—
Sometimes, healing doesn’t look like doing more.
It looks like doing less.
Less noise. Less rush.
Just quiet moments with someone you love.
