*Clack… clack… clack.*
Wooden sandals tapped the stone path, making a neat little rhythm. The air smelled like warm rice and sweet soy sauce. Somewhere close, a kettle sang a tiny, steady song.
Myron held his breath. The sounds felt new on his ears, like they were teaching him a secret.
He was in Japan for the first time.
His father squeezed his hand. “Slow steps,” Dad whispered. “Let your eyes do the exploring.”
Myron nodded. His tummy felt wiggly, but in a good way. He wanted to do something big. Not a loud big. A brave big.
At the guest house, the floor was smooth tatami mats. Myron’s socks whispered when he walked. A lady with kind eyes bowed to them. Dad bowed back.
Myron froze. He knew a bow meant respect. But how low? How long? His cheeks warmed.
Dad leaned close. “Just do your best.”
Myron took a breath and bent at the waist, not too fast. His hair fell forward and tickled his nose. The lady smiled and bowed again.
Myron’s heart did a happy flip. He did it! It was small, but it felt huge.
That afternoon, Dad brought him to a place with tall wooden gates painted bright red. They stood like careful giants guarding the path.
“Torii gates,” Dad said. “They mark a special way.”
A small bell jingled nearby. Myron followed the sound to a shrine with ropes and wooden tablets. A man in simple clothes swept the ground. *Shush… shush… shush.*
The man noticed Myron watching.
“Hello,” the man said gently. “Welcome. I am Mr. Sato.”
Myron remembered the bow. He bowed again. Mr. Sato bowed back. “Good. Respect is a strong start.”
Mr. Sato pointed to a wooden rack of small, flat tablets. “These are *ema*,” he explained. “People write wishes and hopes, then hang them up like messages sent with the heart.”
