I was walking through a small antique shop in Kyoto, just passing time, when I saw an old music box — and froze.
It was identical to the one my grandmother used to keep on her nightstand. The one she’d wind every night before bed, playing a lullaby that still echoed in my dreams.
I picked it up, opened the lid… and inside, tucked in the velvet lining, was a faded photo of a woman.
It was her. My grandmother.
The shopkeeper noticed my shock and asked if I was okay. I showed him the photo on my phone — the same woman, younger, smiling.
He said, “That box was sold to us years ago… by a woman who said she was leaving it behind for someone to find when the time was right.”
Tears welled in my eyes.
I bought it. I carry it with me now — a reminder that somehow, love knows how to find its way back.
