Another autumn arrives, stirring memories of my journey five years ago to the Miho Museum, concealed in Shiga’s mountains south of Lake Biwa. There, far from the world, it emerges as a vision of paradise, cherry blossoms scattering like a fairytale dream.

Since reading about it in my youth, I had yearned to see I. M. Pei’s masterpiece, but the museum’s brief open seasons made it an elusive dream, one shared by architect Yungho Chang, who once spoke of longing for it yet never reaching it. In the autumn after graduation in 2019, I finally crossed its "moon gate" as the sun set—a sight etched into my soul.

Only in autumn’s fading light does one grasp the gate’s power. The warm glow fills the circular doorway, casting pines into shadowy grace and veiling the mountains in mist. Time halts, a golden beam igniting the tunnel, just for a moment. In that brief radiance, I felt as if a lifetime had passed, and when the light faded, I was left yearning to relive it all.