Cooler days of autumn have finally come to Kyoto, and the winning entries from our last writing competition have been shared in turn since May. Hopefully our readers have been inspired by these successful “short shorts” of 2022, and we hope to hear from many in our next round. An announcement regarding the WiK Eighth Kyoto Writing Competition (with a 2023 deadline for entries) is planned for next month. To see the full list of winners from this year’s competition, please click here.

Our top winner of 2022, Maria Danuco, was granted the prestigious Kyoto City Mayoral Prize for her piece titled “The Watcher”, which touches on a prevalent topic in recent years — the preservation of traditional structures and the unfortunate trend of replacing history with concrete. Not only is “The Watcher” a fine piece of writing, but it also bears a message worthy of wide readership and consideration. The current generations will inevitably determine the future landscape of Kyoto City, and we welcome and encourage further discussion on this very important topic of cultural and social significance. Therefore, the judges were unanimous in deciding to award Maria our top prize.

Are we going to be “watchers”, or will we continue to be mindful in striving to preserve the unique local, traditional flavor of our favorite Japanese city?

The Watcher

I noticed her house, long before I noticed her. It was a small building, falling apart at the seams, with its ramshackle roof sinking towards the earth while the overgrown garden reached for the heavens. A family of stray cats had made their home somewhere within the gates, and they glared at me with suspicion when I passed each day on my way to the station.

Perhaps back in its glory days it could have been a grand place. Given its proximity to the grounds of Kyoto Imperial Palace, it could have even been important. But now it was rotting — forgotten and abandoned.

Until the day she appeared.

I noticed her immediately; there is no way I wouldn’t have. Her kimono was far too elegant for someone who lived in a house like that. And yet there she was, standing solemnly in the sagging doorway. From the shadows, she gazed out at the world and watched, and the world seemed to slide by her: cars, bicycles, people, me.

Days passed, and I never saw her do anything but watch.

Sometime later, I moved away and forgot about her until I returned during Golden Week. The house was gone. Perhaps the roof had finally worn out and sunk gratefully into the ground, crushing the hopeful plants beneath it. Just as likely, the owners, wherever they were, had been offered a fair sum and sold the land.

As I stood there, I was struck with a strange sense of mourning. I felt that a piece of history had been wiped away, but that wasn’t unusual. Kyoto was going bankrupt, and history doesn’t pay the bills the same way parking lots can.

I thought of her — of all she had seen — and I wondered if, somehow, she’d known what was coming all along.

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Maria Danuco is a writer of Filipino/Australian descent born on unceded Noongar land in the southwest of Western Australia. She has lived in Tokyo since 2019. An avid reader, traveller and recovering teacher, Maria spends most of her time these days writing, baking and pursuing whatever new hobby has piqued her interest.