After moving to Tokyo, I called this neighborhood home for a while.
My apartment was a tiny, one-room affair. But this was a formative time for me, and that made it a special place.
There was a big park behind the station, and beyond that some narrow, quiet alleys; once I crossed the river, I’d find myself under the highway overpass. I miss those quiet spaces, tucked away in the shadows of the bustling city.

At the time, I was transitioning from student life to the working world. I was caught between anxiety and anticipation, searching for who I was, and the days I spent here are etched into my memory.
I’d visit the ramen stall late at night and talk about life with the man who ran it; I remember dropping by the diving shop in the shopping arcade, and being taken on an excursion to the sea.
When I returned to this neighborhood some years later, I was comforted by how little things had changed. The people exuded the same warmth, and there were still those hand-painted signs outside the izakayas, that lively shopping arcade, the apartment blocks lined up on the far side of the train tracks. Against that unchanged, chaotic old-city backdrop, an argyle sweater stood out.
It felt like an encounter with my younger self—a fleeting moment that nudged me to stand a little straighter, a little taller.