Framed by shoji screens, this was once a place of quiet retreat—a small sitting room where guests unwound after a soak in the onsen, the scent of tatami filling the air. The delicate paper panels remain remarkably intact, save for a single tear, yet beyond the threshold, the space has surrendered to time.
The tatami ripples where it meets the entrance, giving way to a floor softened by decay. A fern pushes through, its roots threading through layers of woven straw. Strips of ceiling material hang limp, peeling away in ribbons where water has found its way in. The light fixture dangles uselessly from its cord, long since disconnected from purpose.
Yet, for all the collapse, a strange order remains. The sofa sits against the wall as it always did, cushions still loosely in place, an ashtray resting on the air conditioning unit beside it. But the wall behind bears the scars of time, streaked with years of water damage, its wallpaper peeling in long, curling sheets.
This fine art photography print captures the delicate balance between stillness and decay, a space once filled with hospitality now left to the slow work of nature.