The film doesn't flinch from what war does to ordinary people, not soldiers or politicians, but a glassmaker and his daughter watching everything they built turn to ash. You watch a family's careful, dignified life collapse one decision at a time, each choice smaller than the last, until there's nothing left to choose. The quiet of it is devastating: no bombast, no speeches, just the sound of glass breaking and people trying to survive the next day. This is what happens when historical trauma enters a home that never asked for it. By the end, you understand why this story matters more than a thousand grand narratives about war.
Toshiko Ei grows up in Tokyo as the daughter of a master glassworker whose delicate craft brings prosperity and respect to her family. Her father's skilled hands shape beautiful objects that seem to transcend the ordinary world. But when war engulfs Japan, the family's carefully constructed life shatters like the fragile glass they create. As the conflict deepens, Toshiko and her loved ones confront loss, displacement, and the brutal realities of wartime. The craft that once defined their identity becomes meaningless against the devastation surrounding them. Toshiko must navigate a fractured reality where survival itself becomes uncertain and childhood innocence gives way to painful understanding. This film captures how war doesn't just destroy infrastructure and safety: it dismantles the intimate fabric of family bonds and personal dreams. Through Toshiko's eyes, we witness how ordinary people endure extraordinary trauma, and how fragile our sense of security truly is. The glass rabbit of the title becomes a poignant symbol of beauty and fragility caught in forces beyond anyone's control.