During the early months of the city’s voluntary lockdown, its parks and playgrounds were cordoned off: swings bound in yellow tape, slides wrapped like unfinished sculptures. These small, unassuming spaces tucked between apartment blocks had always been full of motion. Children, bicycles, the steady rhythm of conversation were now still, and in that stillness, something had changed. The city had quietened itself, not by force but by Tokyo’s peculiar brand of collective discipline. Depending on the neighbourhood, these interruptions of play were treated differently: some left untouched, others torn down, only to be replaced by workers the next morning.

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