Haruko Kobayashi

Aokigahara’s forest breathes something deep and ancient. To some, it’s dark, but to me, it’s a place where my life’s work resonates most clearly. Living and working as a forensic doctor in Fuji, Japan, I often see what most people shy away from: bodies and the mysteries they leave behind. It’s been years, but it’s a task I approach with careful silence, for each case feels like an echo of an untold story.

I spent yesterday examining two bodies found in the depths of Aokigahara, a familiar scene by now. Yet, every time, something shifts within me, as if each examination subtly rewrites how I perceive life itself. I’ve come to learn that each face, every hand or scar, holds a wordless explanation.

The forest does not judge—it merely witnesses. The trees stand quiet, absorbing the desperation and solitude of the people who find their way there. Aokigahara’s soil has borne witness to much, and I sometimes imagine it remembering each soul. Walking through it, with the dense canopy allowing only fragments of light, one senses a pull to listen more deeply, to look more closely.

In my office, under the hum of the fluorescent lights, I document the end of a life as clinically as I can, though my mind often lingers. I am left to piece together clues—a worn shoe, a handwritten note, a photograph tucked away. And though it’s not in my job description, sometimes I find myself offering a silent farewell, hoping that perhaps, wherever they went, they found a peace I can’t see but hope exists.

For me, it’s a quiet resolve that keeps me going, knowing that, somehow, I’m offering a bridge to lives that might have felt lost but were, in the end, recognized.