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In Bloom

I’ve always believed in quiet signs.

This one came in tulips — soft pink and ivory, left on the steps of my Tokyo apartment with no note, no name. Just their quiet presence. A whisper from the universe.

Later that day, I slipped on a long coat over silk and wandered the backstreets near Yoyogi Park. Tokyo in spring is a poem with moving parts: cherry blossoms dancing in tea steam, laughter behind vending machines, petals caught in train doors. I let the city carry me.

That’s how I found the little salon.

Hidden behind a bookshop with sandalwood air and soft jazz from a cassette. No sign, only a curtain waving like a spell. The woman inside didn’t speak much. I pointed to my hair… and then to my heart. She understood.

As the red washed down the drain like a memory, brown rose up in its place — warm, deep, grounding. Not flashy. Just honest. Like tree bark, like soil. Like something that stays.

That night I wore green silk and drifted through a candlelit gathering at the Academy. There was plum wine. A jazz trio. Fireflies tangled in the ivy. I didn’t sing. I just existed.

Someone asked what changed.

I smiled, gently. “Maybe I’m just becoming more of myself.”

I may bring back the fire — for the stage, for the tour, for when the music wants heat again. But for now?

I bloom softly.
Quietly.
Inward.

And that’s enough.

— AURÆL 🕊️

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