Midnight Cherry Blossoms

By Timothy Walder

Midnight Cherry Blossoms - A Captivating Love Story Between Tokyo and Kyoto

Burned-out photographer Michiko Nakamura is desperately searching for her lost inspiration. In Tokyo, she has everything: a successful career, a state-of-the-art apartment, yet her photos have become empty, soulless. Her latest assignment could be her last chance – a series about modern artists inspired by traditional Japanese culture.

On the train, she meets Ren Takahashi, a mysterious architect with contemplative eyes. What begins as a chance encounter develops into a deep connection. 

Timothy Walder tells a touching story about second chances, the healing power of love, and the search for authenticity in a modern world. The novel masterfully weaves Japanese traditions with contemporary life and transports readers into Japan's fascinating culture – from Tokyo's pulsating streets to Kyoto's poetic cherry blossom gardens.

A novel about the art of seeing, the beauty of impermanence, and the power of unexpected encounters that can change our lives forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy Walder
• Release date: Apr 24, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231723720

Timothy Walder

Timothy Walder,1989  in Zürich geboren, lebt mit seiner Familie in der Schweiz. Eine seiner großen Leidenschaften ist es Bücher zu lesen und auch zu schreiben. Zuweilen ist das Land seiner Träume (Japan) Schauplatz seiner Romane.   Er hat zwei Kinder und ist zudem in einer eigenen Agentur tätig. 

Book preview

​Prologue

When I first travelled to Kyoto, I was searching for my lost inspiration—not for a love that would change my life. The night rain on the windows of the Shinkansen blended with Tokyo's neon lights into a blurred painting, while I held my camera in my hands, a faithful companion that lately had only captured empty images.

So often, fate has its own way of leading us down unexpected paths. When that man sat beside me on the midnight train, with his thoughtful eyes and reserved smile, I never would have suspected that he would be the key to a new chapter in my life. That he would teach me not only to see again, but also to feel.

Under the cherry blossoms of Kyoto, between ancient temples and whispering bamboo forests, a story began about loss and healing, unexpected connections and the tender courage to open one's heart again. A story about the sweet melancholy of impermanence—mono no aware—and the timeless endurance of certain encounters.

What began as a search for my art became a journey back to myself. And to him.

​Chapter 1: Tokyo

It was raining when I drove to the station. Not the gentle spring rain that had visited Tokyo in those days, but a relentless downpour, drumming on the roof of the taxi. My fingers were clenched around the clasp of my camera bag—a nervous habit that I couldn't break.

That was me, Michiko Nakamura, twenty-seven years old, frustrated with life and on my way to a job that might be my last chance.

To Tokyo Station, please, I had told the driver, my voice barely audible over the loud patter of the rain.

The driver nodded briefly, his weather-beaten face momentarily visible in the rear-view mirror before he concentrated on the traffic again. Raindrops pelted against the windows, transforming the city's neon lights into blurred splashes of colour that ran across the glass like abstract paintings.

I should have been happy. An assignment in Kyoto during cherry blossom season was every photographer's dream. For me, it was a much-needed respite—an escape from hectic Tokyo, where I had spent the last four years photographing for a prestigious magazine, only to slowly burn out like an overheated light bulb.

I remembered the conversation with Tanaka-san, my editor-in-chief, a gaunt man with rimless glasses and a preference for perfect order—both on his desk and in the magazine pages.

Nakamura-san, he had said while leafing through my recent work, your technical skills are undisputedly excellent. He had paused artfully, and I knew something unpleasant would follow. But your work has lost its... sparkle. The images are perfectly composed, perfectly exposed, and yet... He searched for the right words. They no longer touch people. They lack soul.

I swallowed hard, unable to contradict him. He was right, and that was the worst part.

Perhaps you can find it again in Kyoto, he had added, with a rare hint of compassion in his voice. One month, Nakamura-san. A series about modern creatives and artists inspired by traditional Japanese culture. Perhaps the change will help you.

It hadn't been a suggestion, but an ultimate offer. Find your inspiration again or find a new job.

Outside the taxi, Tokyo was a blurred whirl of umbrellas. The familiar skyline I had photographed so often seemed to mock me.

Once I had loved this city's pulsating energy, had tried to capture it in every one of my images. Now it seemed only cold and indifferent to me.

The taxi driver fought his way through the evening traffic, skilfully manoeuvring between honking cars and hurried pedestrians. Midnight train to Kyoto? he asked casually, with a glance in the rear-view mirror.

Hai, I replied. The last Shinkansen of the day. Normally I avoided such late journeys, but today there had been no other option. My last assignment—a fashion shoot I had shot without enthusiasm—had dragged on into the late evening. Models arriving late; an art director who constantly changed his mind; technical problems with the lighting. A typical day in my increasingly frustrating life.

Planning a long weekend? asked the driver, a polite attempt at making conversation.

Business, I replied curtly, not in the mood for small talk. A longer stay.

He nodded understandingly and fell silent, leaving me again to my circling thoughts.

I leaned my head against the cool window and watched the raindrops run down it. My reflection stared back at me—pale skin, dark eyes with even darker circles underneath, shoulder-length black hair that seemed particularly unruly today. I looked tired. Burnt out.

When had I stopped loving my work? When had my photographs become empty shells, technically perfect but soulless? Perhaps it had come creeping in, like an illness one only notices when it's already far advanced.

We're here, announced the driver as we stopped in front of the illuminated entrance of Tokyo Station, the massive structure rising like a fortress before us.

I paid, took my camera bag and small suitcase, and stepped out into the rain. For a moment I simply stood there, letting myself get soaked, feeling the heavy moisture on my skin. It felt strangely cleansing.

The station was still full of travellers even at this late hour. Businessmen in dark suits, the last commuters of the day, tourists with oversized backpacks. I made my way through the crowd to the ticket gate, my reservation for the midnight train firmly in hand. My seat was in carriage 5, seat 24A—a window seat. At least I had that small piece of luck.

The Shinkansen was already waiting, its aerodynamic design making it look like a resting predator. I boarded, found my carriage and heaved my bag into the luggage rack. The train was nearly empty—just a few businessmen who had come too late for earlier connections, and a few tourists who didn't know where to store their huge pieces of luggage. I sank into my seat and took out my camera—an old Nikon that my father had given me upon graduation from university. It wasn't the newest or best, but it had character. Something my recent images lacked.

My fingers stroked over the worn casing, feeling the small dents and scratches that told stories of a thousand shots. I remembered how proud I had been when my father had presented it to me, how I had promised to see the world through its lens and capture it.

May I? A deep voice tore me from my thoughts.

I looked up and saw the face of a man—probably late twenties or early thirties—who was pointing to the seat opposite. He wore a dark suit, slightly damp from the rain, and his black hair fell lightly across his forehead. But it was his eyes that captivated me—dark and deep like well shafts, with an