The scent of the sea brought him home. The scent of sweet bean paste brought him back to him.
Ten years ago, Minato left the sleepy seaside town of Shiomi-cho with a camera in his hands, three words caught in his throat, and a roll of film he never developed. He made it in Tokyo—his photographs are flawless, published, praised. But flawless isn't the same as alive, and lately his camera feels heavier than it should.
Now he's back, ostensibly on assignment. Really, he's back for the boy he left
Scent of Sea Breeze and Sweet Bean Paste - Revenge of the Sea's Roar — The Photo Exhibition, the Night Before Opening
The scent of the tide drifted in through the gap in the curtains.
Mid-August. The morning air was still lukewarm, and outside the window the harbor lights were just beginning to dissolve into the pale white of dawn.
Minato opened his eyes on the narrow bed of a business hotel.
His pillow was damp. His eyelids were swollen. He'd spent the whole night crying with his voice choked down, and now the back of his throat stung with a raw, scraping pain.
(I haven't changed at all.)
The words he'd spoken last night circled through his head.
Ten years ago, the self who couldn't say *I like you*.
Ten years later, the self who couldn't say *I want to save you*.
He'd only gotten older. Nothing more.
Minato slowly sat up.
He opened the curtains.
Morning light came cascading into the room.
Beyond the harbor, above the horizon, the sun was climbing in a blaze. The surface of the sea shattered into gold, countless fragments of light trembling across the water.
(It's beautiful.)
Minato gazed at the scene, absently.
Morning in Shiomi Harbor. The sound of fishing boat engines echoed faintly in the distance. A seagull glided slowly across the pier.
On the desk sat a film canister.
The undeveloped film he'd shot of Yuuma at the Shiomi Cape lighthouse ten years ago.
Minato picked it up.
It was light.
And yet, it was impossibly heavy.
(What I really wanted to photograph is in here.)
(That one frame, the one I wanted to capture with all my heart, that day.)
Minato gripped the film canister tight.
The plastic corner bit into his palm, sharp and painful.
(No more running.)
Minato drew a deep breath.
The scent of the tide filled his lungs to the bottom.
(I'm a photographer.)
(Not someone who shoots the scenery other people ask for.)
(I shoot the faces of the people who live in this town.)
(What I truly want to photograph.)
Minato slung his camera bag over his shoulder.
He pushed the film canister into his breast pocket.
Right above his heart, it rested there, a small and certain weight.
---
Morning in Shiomi was quiet.
He walked along Shiomi Ginza Street.
The shuttered shops cast long shadows in the morning light.
Seven out of ten storefronts on this street were closed.
But the remaining three were open for business today, as always.
As he passed in front of Tokiwa Barbershop, Furukawa Masao was sweeping the ground out front.
Seventy-two years old. A white work jacket over a navy apron.
He was the chairman of the Shiomi Ginza Shopping District Association, a man who'd run a barbershop on this street for forty-five years.
"Well now, Minato. You're up early."
Furukawa stopped moving his bamboo broom and called out to Minato.
Minato came to a halt.
"Furukawa-san, I came to ask you a favor."
Furukawa studied Minato's face.
The swollen eyelids. The hollowed cheeks.
But his eyes—his eyes looked straight at Furukawa.
"...Come on in. I'll at least pour you some cold barley tea."
With that, Furukawa went into the back of the shop.
---
Inside Tokiwa Barbershop, time seemed to have stopped somewhere in the Showa era.
Two black leather barber chairs. The mirrors on the wall were slightly clouded at the corners.
Furukawa brought two glasses of chilled barley tea from the back room.
"So. What's this talk about?"
Furukawa sat down across from Minato and spoke quietly.
Minato wrapped both hands around the glass and took a sip.
Cold.
The rawness in his throat eased, slowly.
"The vacant storefront of the closed Marusho Butcher Shop—would you rent it to me?"
Minato said it looking straight into Furukawa's eyes.
Furukawa's white eyebrows twitched.
"The Marusho shop? What for?"
"I want to hold a photo exhibition. Here in this town."
Minato's voice was calm.
But the hands resting on his knees trembled, faintly.
"I want the people of this town to see the photos I've taken. The faces of this town, the scenery of this town, the time of this town—I want them to see how I captured it all."
Furukawa crossed his arms.
"A photo exhibition. That might be a fine thing, but..."
Furukawa's voice dropped a little.
"Do you understand what's happening in this town right now?"
"You mean the redevelopment."
"That's right. The station front, the harbor, this street—all of it gets dragged in. At a time like this, what good does a photo exhibition do?"
Furukawa's words were blunt, pushing him away.
But his eyes watched Minato closely, as if testing him.
Minato set down his glass.
"I wasn't born and raised in this town. But in ten years, I've never once forgotten it."
Minato spun out the words, slowly.
"Yuuma at Matsubaya is my childhood friend. He's protecting that shop all alone. That shop sits at the center of the redevelopment plan. He knows everything, and he's still carrying it all by himself."
Furukawa's expression shifted, just slightly.
"I want to help him. But I have no money and no power. All I can do is take photographs."
Minato took the film canister from his breast pocket.
He set it gently before Furukawa.
"This is the film I shot of Yuuma ten years ago. I never developed it. I was too afraid. But this time, I will. I want this town to see his face—really see it."
Furukawa stared at the film canister for a while.
Silence fell over the barbershop.
The second hand of the wall clock ticked, ticked—strangely loud.
"If it's for Yuuma, I'll give you the key."
Furukawa said it and stood.
He brought back a single silver key from the back of the shop.
"The Marusho shop is still usable. The electricity's on. It'll need cleaning, but it should work out somehow."
Furukawa placed the key in Minato's palm.
The key was cold, and heavy.
"Thank you."
Minato bowed deeply.
"No need for thanks. Just make that exhibition a success. Show this town what you've got. Your photographs."
Furukawa grinned, white teeth showing.
---
The Marusho Butcher Shop stood almost dead center on Shiomi Ginza Street.
Less than a minute's walk from Matsubaya.
He raised the shutter.
It creaked, a rusty sound that echoed down the morning street.
Inside was dim and dusty.
The meat display cases were still there, just as they'd been left. The refrigerators, the knives, the price tags.
A space where time had stood still since the day it closed.
Minato pressed the switch on the wall.
The fluorescent lights flickered, stuttered, and then began to glow white.
"Well, Minato. So you really went and did it."
A voice—he turned.
In front of the shop stood Nozaki Genzou.
Sixty-eight years old. Captain of the Shiomi Maru, chairman of the morning market committee—one of the town's leading figures.
A sun-darkened face. Deep wrinkles. The thick hands of a fisherman.
"Genzou-san. I'm holding a photo exhibition. Here, in this shop."
When Minato spoke, Genzou grinned, white teeth flashing.
"Well, why not. This town could use some good news for a change."
Genzou looked around the inside of the shop.
"I'll put the word out to the morning market crowd too. If there's anything we can help with, just say so."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. A young guy from this town wants to do something. How could the old folks not back him up?"
Genzou clapped Minato on the shoulder.
That hand was hard, and warm.
---
Before noon, as Minato was cleaning the shop, Onodera Osamu from the Lighthouse Café appeared carrying a pot of coffee.
Sixty years old. In a white apron. The master of a coffee shop where the local regulars gathered from morning on.
"Minato, take a break. I'll help with the cleaning afterward."
Onodera poured coffee into a paper cup and held it out to Minato.
"I'm sorry—thank you."
As Minato took it, Onodera smiled warmly.
"I'm looking forward to this town's photo exhibition. My regulars all said they'd go see it too."
"Word's already gotten around?"
"This town is fast with rumors. Good ones and bad ones, in the blink of an eye."
Onodera set down the coffee pot and started helping with the cleaning.
---
In the afternoon, Ootsuka Mitsu from Shiomi Books arrived carrying an armful of old magazines.
Seventy-six years old. A small, stooped old woman.
"Minato, if you'd like, use these."
Ootsuka set the stack of magazines on the counter.
"These are..."
Minato picked one up.
They were old photography magazines. Page after page of scenery photos of this town from the Showa era.
"They were sleeping in the storeroom of my shop. There are so many old photos of Shiomi in them. I thought if you displayed them alongside your photographs, the customers would be pleased."
With her wrinkled hand, Ootsuka gently stroked the magazine cover.
"This town used to be so lively, you know. I'd like the young people to know that."
Minato turned the pages, one after another.
In the black-and-white photographs was the old Shiomi—brimming with life.
The fish market. The shopping street. The festival stalls at night.
All of it a face of this town that Minato had never known.
(This town has been alive all along.)
(All the time I never knew—the people of this town have been layering it up, all along.)
Minato hugged the magazines to his chest.
---
It was evening, when Minato had just finished pinning the first photograph to the shop wall.
"What diligent work."
A low voice he recognized.
Minato turned.
In the shop entrance stood Mashiba Tooru.
Short, neatly trimmed black hair. A crisp white shirt. On his right hand, a simple silver ring.
The redevelopment manager for Orbis Urban Development.
"I hear you're opening a photo exhibition in the vacant Marusho Butcher Shop. Rumors reach my ears quickly."
Mashiba slowly surveyed the inside of the shop.
His eyes lingered on each photograph pinned to the wall, as if appraising them.
"Minato. I'm told you're a sought-after photographer in Tokyo. Why would you do something like this, in a place like this?"
Mashiba's voice was polite.
But beneath it, Minato felt something cold.
"Because I want to shoot what I want to shoot."
Minato said it looking straight into Mashiba's eyes.
Mashiba tilted his head, faintly.
"The redevelopment of this town is already a settled matter. Landowner consent is proceeding smoothly. Holding a photo exhibition won't change the plan. It's a futile resistance."
Mashiba's words were flat.
Devoid of any color of emotion.
Minato touched a finger to one of the photographs on the wall.
The Shiomi Cape lighthouse. The sea dyed by the setting sun.
"Whether it's futile or not—decide after you've seen it."
Minato turned to face Mashiba.
"If my photographs can't reach a single person in this town, then it's futile. But if even one of them stays in someone's heart, then it isn't."
Mashiba stared at Minato's eyes.
Sharp, observing eyes.
"...I see. You're a man who speaks with emotion."
With that, Mashiba took a card case from his breast pocket.
"I'm Mashiba. I look forward to the exhibition."
Mashiba held out his business card.
Minato hesitated for a moment.
But he didn't refuse.
He took the card.
White paper. Black text. Orbis Urban Development, Redevelopment Planning, Mashiba Tooru.
"I'm Minato. Please come see the exhibition."
Minato slipped the card into his breast pocket.
Mashiba looked around the shop once more.
"Let me put it to you as a realistic option. No matter how excellent your photographs are, the business conclusion won't change. And still, you press the shutter. ...Interesting."
With that alone, Mashiba left the shop.
He walked down the twilight street, back straight, toward the station.
Minato watched his retreating figure for a while.
(Is he an enemy—or)
Minato gripped the business card in his hand.
---
That night, in the reception room on the second floor of Hatayama Real Estate, Kento sat facing his father, Ryouzou.
Hatayama Ryouzou. Sixty-four years old.
A man with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, the very picture of an old-fashioned real estate broker.
The air in the reception room was ice-cold.
In the ov
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