Rust
Just above the canal lay the steps of staircases so rusted you could snap them like saltines. There’s an air of finality to the buildings— the town itself. The population leans heavily towards white hair and slow gaits. An age is passing after an age has passed.
This island contains the most officially recognized shrines for any area in the whole of Kyushu. Even on idle walks you can pass offering sites that have sat for centuries.
Living on an island that’s being forgotten piece by piece. Little pockets of life that hold out against the oncoming red hues and brittle breakdown. The moldy, forgotten rooms and lost stories from villages and towns no longer inhabited. Family homes abandoned and the migration of history to greener pastures.
I have to remind myself to appreciate the wild bouquet of colors that stretch the sky into something larger than life. To appreciate the dwindling days for this venture— as if they’re a handful of fresh picked raspberries at the end of the harvest.