

The day I was born, Dad captured the city noise outside our hospital window with his iPhone. Mom laughed through tears, her long black hair falling around her face. My sister, only eight years old then, held a tiny cat plushie close to my blanket.

At one, I took my first wobbly steps across our apartment floor, knocking over Tokyo's water bowl. Tokyo, our fluffy Manx with gray, black and white stripes, meowed in protest. Mom quickly cleaned up while Dad recorded everything, laughing. My sister joked we were 'twins born eight years apart' as she helped me stand again.

I found Dad's camera when I was four and snapped a blurry shot of the street below our window. Mom proudly displayed it on our fridge, calling it the first sign of my 'eye.' Dad showed me how to hold the camera properly, his hands steady over mine.

Every Sunday, our kitchen transformed into a sushi-making zone with Dad leading the way. Tokyo would dart between our legs, hoping for a fallen piece. Sister taught me to roll the perfect maki while Mom prepared the rice. Inside our apartment, it was just us, sushi, and laughter.

By age seven, I loved reading about faraway places, especially Japan. Tokyo and I spent weekends on the rooftop, me reading while she watched birds. I'd bring Dad's old camera up to capture the skyline. Sister would sometimes join us, bringing snacks and stories about her school.

My bedroom walls became a gallery of photos—Tokyo basking in sunlight, Sister dancing, city lights at dusk. Mom and Dad called me 'our little storyteller' and gifted me my first camera on my ninth birthday. I spent hours learning about photography from library books.

At ten, I entered a youth photo contest with a shot of Tokyo silhouetted against the city skyline. Though I didn't win, the judges' encouragement made my heart soar. We celebrated with homemade sushi and cupcakes that night.

Tokyo brought calm to our busy city life, always finding the sunniest spots in our apartment. Sister and I created a scrapbook of memories with her, spanning eleven years. Despite the constant noise outside, I found tranquility through my viewfinder.

At twelve, I spent hours scrolling through photos of Japan, imagining capturing its beauty someday. Dad noticed and started teaching me Japanese phrases on weekend mornings. Mom found documentaries about Japanese photography we watched together.

For my middle school art show, I created a photo series called 'Urban Stories' about finding quiet in city chaos. Tokyo featured prominently, always peaceful despite the noise. Sister helped me mount the photos while Mom and Dad prepared snacks for the opening.

When Sister left for college at fourteen, she gave me her old photography books. We video-called weekly, comparing photos and techniques. Tokyo would purr whenever she heard Sister's voice through the speaker.

On my fifteenth birthday, I found a new camera wrapped in cherry blossom paper. Inside was a note from my family: 'Keep capturing what matters.' I snapped a photo of Mom, Dad, and Sister with Tokyo curled contentedly in the middle. Later, I sat by the window, dreaming of Japan through my new lens.