Asakusa Sensoji Anomaly: A Flash Fiction
The incense smoke tasted of static and regret. Not the ancient, sandalwood-infused aroma I craved before the majestic Sensoji Temple in Asakusa, but a thin, acrid burn at the back of my throat, a ghostly aftertaste of fractured moments.
I’d come seeking solace, a moment of quiet contemplation amidst the relentless Tokyo thrum. Instead, the familiar scent of the incense sticks, usually a balm to my weary soul, sparked a jarring premonition. A vision, perhaps. Or a memory – not my own, yet achingly familiar.
The crowd surged around me, a kaleidoscope of faces blurring into a single, relentless tide. Tourists wielding selfie sticks, locals hurrying to their daily routines, the rhythmic clang of wooden sandals on the ancient paving stones. All normal, all expected. Except for the nagging dissonance, the feeling of being adrift in a river that flowed backwards.
A young woman, dressed in a vibrant kimono, brushed past me, her laughter echoing like a broken chime. For a heartbeat, her face shimmered, replaced by a wizened visage, eyes filled with an ancient sorrow. Then, gone. Vanished back into the anonymous sea of humanity.
The Nakamise-dori Glitch
I stumbled, nearly colliding with a stall overflowing with colorful trinkets and lucky charms. The vendor, a jovial man with a weathered face, offered a polite nod. But as I focused on the Daruma dolls, their blank eyes seemed to bore into my soul, whispering secrets of forgotten futures.
Suddenly, the Nakamise-dori, the bustling street leading to the temple, fractured. The vibrant stalls flickered, replaced by shadowy outlines of buildings I didn’t recognize. The sounds of commerce morphed into a low, guttural hum. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I gripped a nearby post for support.
When the world snapped back into focus, everything seemed…slightly off. The colors were too bright, the sounds too sharp. The air itself crackled with an unseen energy.
Temporal Echoes
I consulted my phone. The time was correct, the date aligned. No earthquake reported, no unusual activity. Just the nagging feeling that I had somehow stepped outside of the accepted flow of time.
Driven by an inexplicable urge, I entered the Sensoji Temple, the towering pagoda looming before me. I tossed a coin into the offering box and bowed my head in prayer, not knowing what to ask for. Perhaps clarity. Or simply, an end to the unsettling distortion.
As I straightened, I noticed a monk sweeping the courtyard. He paused, looked directly at me, and offered a cryptic smile. “Time is a river,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Sometimes, the currents shift.”
Before I could respond, he resumed his sweeping, disappearing into the folds of the crowd. His words echoed in my mind, a chilling confirmation of my unsettling experience.
Leaving the temple, the air felt different. The static in the incense smoke had dissipated, replaced by the familiar scent of sandalwood. The feeling of being adrift had subsided, though a lingering sense of unease remained.
Had I truly experienced a temporal anomaly? A glitch in the fabric of reality? Or was it simply the product of an overactive imagination, fueled by the relentless energy of Tokyo?
I hailed a taxi, the digital display blinking the current time. As we pulled away from Sensoji Temple, I glanced back. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw the pagoda flicker, its ancient silhouette wavering like a mirage. The taste of static lingered on my tongue, a subtle reminder of the anomaly in Asakusa, a secret ripple in the river of time.