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Dear friend, begin with weather. The salon insists. It rained last Tuesday and the persimmon tree dropped one leaf is a finer opening than any cleverness. Weather is the oldest pretext for caring whether the other person is warm.

Write the first line in pencil, then trace it in ink. The pencil sees the doubt; the ink keeps the promise. — this is rule 1, after all

If your hand wobbles, let it. The salon, est. 1962 · 昭和三十七年, has filed thousands of letters in which a single stroke betrays the writer's pulse. Those are the ones we keep behind glass.

Plant something. A radish, a bean, a windowsill mint. Waiting is unbearable until you have something else also growing in silence with you.

Re-read the letter you sent. Notice three small embarrassments in your phrasing; forgive them like you would forgive a child for spilling milk. The salon believes love is a series of small forgivenesses, exchanged by post.

When the postman passes without stopping, walk. Do not check the box again that day. — wax seal does not melt under impatience

A wooden box, plain, with a lid that does not seal too well. Letters need to breathe; they exchange humidity with the room. A perfectly sealed box is a graveyard.

Untie the ribbon once a year on a rainy day. Read in order of receipt. Notice which lines you remember by heart and which ones surprise you all over again. The salon keeps a duplicate of every letter, in case yours fades.

When you can no longer read the ink, fold the letters into paper boats and float them. — this rule is optional, but every member, eventually, agrees