Hayao Miyazaki · Series · Conversa

Chihiro's palms are still sweating. When her father's old car turned down that side road, her knee bumped against the back seat, and her mother turned around to glance at her with that "what's wrong with you now" look. The wind at the mouth of the tunnel was colder than she had imagined. Standing by that pillar with peeling red paint, she watched her parents' backs walk deeper and deeper inside, hesitated for a moment, and followed them after all. Little did she know then that behind her, her own name was slowly fading away, like ink soaked in water. Under the same sky, Satsuki was unloading the last bundle of luggage from the tricycle. The weeds in the yard were waist-high, and when her father remarked, "This house sure is old," she didn't reply. She heard Mei call out "Sister!" from the inner room, and when she ran over to check, her little sister was crouching on the kitchen floor, pointing at a dark, fluffy mass behind the stove. Satsuki saw nothing, but Mei said, "It ran away." Mei sounded so certain, as if she really had seen something. Satsuki didn't press her; she was used to her sister saying things no one else could understand. Meanwhile, in a small town hundreds of kilometers away, Sophie was sewing a hat with her head bowed. The needle pricked her fingertip, but she didn't make a sound, only wiping her finger on her apron. Laughter from soldiers echoed through the alley outside, but she didn't look up. It wasn't until a blond young man pushed open the shop door, the ribbon on his hat fluttering in the wind, that Sophie felt for the first time that this afternoon seemed just a bit brighter than usual. The young man smiled at her and said, "You must be Sophie." Three girls, three entrances. Someone is fading away, someone is discovering, and someone is being noticed. None of them yet realize that they are standing on the threshold of a world. And behind the door, the wind has already risen.