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 - Memory of the Sound of the Sea — Photo Exhibition Opens, and the Breakwater of Farewell
The scent of the tide filled the morning air.
Late August. A wind announcing summer's end blew quietly through the alleys of Shiomi-cho. The sky was high, the clouds thin, and the sea a shade bluer than it had been the day before.
In front of the shuttered Marusho Butcher Shop, Minato hung the last photograph on the wall.
He wiped the glass frame gently with his fingertip. Inside was a profile of Yuuma mixing sweet bean paste at Matsubaya at dusk. White kappou apron. Chestnut hair. Pale brown eyes. A dimple rising on his left cheek.
(This is what I wanted to capture.)
Minato stepped back and surveyed the entire wall.
The space that had once been a butcher shop was now filled with photographs. Maruyama Masako laughing at the morning market. Nozaki Genzo steering his boat. Shopkeepers pulling down their shutters. Furukawa Masao of the barbershop. Otsuka Mitsu of the bookstore. Onodera Osamu of the coffee shop. And the Matsubaya noren, and Yuuma cooking the bean paste.
The true face of Shiomi-cho, which Minato had captured over the past month.
He had named it "Memories of the Tidal Sound."
"...All right."
Minato exhaled softly.
Until yesterday, the townspeople had all pitched in to help set up. Furukawa lent him a stepladder, Otsuka polished the frames, Onodera adjusted the lighting. Maruyama brought snacks on her way back from the morning market, and Genzo told him over and over not to let the photographs catch the sea breeze.
(I couldn't have done it alone.)
(Because everyone was here, I made it this far.)
On the long table at the back of the shop, Minato placed a guest book.
The opening was at ten. Still nearly an hour away.
And yet, people were already beginning to gather in front of the shop.
"Oh, Minato, good morning! Are you open yet?"
Maruyama Masako peered in, a shopping bag in hand. Seventy-two years old. The proprietress who had run the butcher shop in Shiomi-cho. The shop had closed last year, but her smile was as bright as ever.
"Good morning. We'll be opening soon."
"I've been looking forward to that photo you took of me. You know, the one where I'm laughing at the morning market. I want to send it to my grandchild."
"You had a wonderful expression in that one."
When Minato said that, Maruyama waved her hand, embarrassed.
"Oh, stop. Imagine being past seventy and getting flustered over a photograph."
Even as she said it, her eyes were fixed on the photographs inside the shop. She was searching for herself.
Watching her profile, Minato felt a gentle warmth spread through his chest.
(The people of this town still let themselves feel shy about being photographed.)
(That's what's good about it.)
Ten o'clock.
Minato stood at the shop entrance and welcomed the gathered crowd through the indigo-dyed noren.
"Please, take your time."
People filed into the shop one after another.
Maruyama stopped in front of her own photograph.
"Oh my... is this me?"
In the photograph, Maruyama was laughing with her mouth wide open amid the bustle of the morning market. A bag of red beans in her hand. Beside her stood Genzo, shouting something.
"Ahaha, what is this — aren't you and Genzo arguing in this one!"
Maruyama's laughter echoed through the shop.
"Quiet, Maruyama. That's because you were haggling the price down."
Nozaki Genzo entered, wearing a white cap. Sixty-eight years old. Captain of the Shiomi-maru and chairman of the morning market committee — the face of this town.
"And you were inflating the price of the fish!"
"Ha, that's what business is."
The people around them laughed at the exchange.
Minato stood outside the circle, quietly watching the scene.
(The photographs are drawing people in.)
(The photographs are calling up people's memories.)
In front of a single photograph, people stop. They laugh. They start telling old stories.
Furukawa Masao stood silently in front of the barbershop photograph for a long time.
"...This shop, too. Forty-five years already."
Furukawa murmured softly, gazing at his own shop in the photograph.
"Back then, I'd get twenty customers a day. Now I'm lucky if five come by."
Minato stood beside him.
"Furukawa-san, did you like this photograph?"
"Yeah. It's a good shot. It's like you captured the smell of the shop, too."
Furukawa looked at Minato's face.
"Thank you. For photographing this town like this."
Minato tried to say something, then swallowed his words.
Instead, he nodded deeply.
Otsuka Mitsu pressed her hands together softly in front of the bookstore photograph.
Onodera Osamu mimed tilting a coffee cup in front of the coffee shop photograph and laughed.
People quietly compared their selves in the photographs with their selves now.
Minato stood in a corner of the shop, watching.
(The photographs I took are moving someone's heart.)
(How long has it been since I felt this?)
The photographs he'd taken in Tokyo had graced magazine pages, won awards, earned a certain measure of praise. But Minato had almost never seen the faces of the people who looked at them.
(Who have I been taking photographs for?)
(For recognition? For work? Or—)
Minato looked at his right hand.
The finger that presses the shutter.
With this finger, he had captured the smiles of the people of this town.
(Ah, I see.)
(I've been taking photographs for this moment.)
(To preserve someone's face, someone's time.)
Minato was quietly reclaiming his own origins.
Past noon.
A man appeared at the photo exhibition.
It was Mashiba Tooru.
Short, neatly trimmed black hair. A clean white dress shirt. A silver ring on his right hand. An upright, urban posture.
When Mashiba entered the shop, the air in the room tensed, just slightly.
Furukawa murmured beside Minato.
"That's the man from Orbys."
"Yes."
Minato walked toward Mashiba.
"Mashiba-san, you came."
Mashiba looked at Minato.
"Yes. I learned about the exhibition from the town bulletin board. If I'm not intruding, I'd like to take a look."
"Of course. Please."
Mashiba gave a slight bow and headed toward the photographs on the wall.
The first. A scene of the morning market.
Mashiba stopped.
The second. Shutter Street at dusk.
Mashiba slowly drew closer to the photograph.
The third. Fishermen mending nets at the harbor.
Mashiba crossed his arms.
Minato watched Mashiba's back from a little distance.
Mashiba examined each photograph carefully, one by one. His pace was far slower than Minato had imagined.
(This man is truly looking.)
(Not as a job, but as a single photograph.)
In front of Maruyama's photograph, Mashiba's mouth softened, just slightly.
In front of Genzo's photograph, he gave a small nod.
In front of Furukawa's photograph, he stood still for a while.
And then, in front of Yuuma's photograph—
Mashiba stopped.
A long silence.
Mashiba gazed intently at the profile of Yuuma mixing bean paste at Matsubaya at dusk.
Minato approached quietly, watching Mashiba's back.
"Before you destroy this town, I wanted you to see what's here."
Minato's voice was quiet.
Mashiba did not turn around.
"...I cannot change the company's decision."
Mashiba's voice was quiet, too.
"But these photographs — I'd like to take them back to headquarters, not as reference materials, but just once."
Mashiba took out his smartphone and photographed Yuuma's picture.
The electronic shutter sound echoed through the quiet room.
Mashiba silently photographed several other pictures as well.
Minato watched without a word.
(He's changed.)
(Something inside this man.)
When he finished, Mashiba turned to face Minato.
"Minato-san. Your photographs truly capture this town's time. Perhaps I had only ever seen this town as data."
There was a faint tremor in Mashiba's voice.
"But my position hasn't changed. Moving the plan forward is my job."
"I understand."
Minato looked into Mashiba's eyes and nodded.
"Even so, I'm glad you saw them."
Mashiba met Minato's eyes for just a moment.
Then he bowed deeply and left the exhibition.
Watching Mashiba's back recede, Minato let out a small breath.
(I feel like something has moved.)
(Something, still.)
A few days after the exhibition.
A small change came over Shiomi-cho.
The local newspaper, the Shiomi Daily, ran a front-page story about the photo exhibition.
The headline read: "The True Face of Shiomi-cho, as Seen by a Photographer from Outside."
The article featured several of Minato's photographs and introduced voices from the townspeople who had gathered at the exhibition.
"So this town still had this many smiles in it."
"Looking at the photographs, I remembered my younger days."
"I'm proud that Minato-san photographed this town."
The article positioned the exhibition as "an attempt to preserve the town's memories amid advancing redevelopment," and closed on that note.
In his hotel room, Minato read the newspaper over and over. His fingertip traced slowly across the print, again and again.
(It's in the newspaper.)
(My photographs, on the front page of this town's paper.)
Deep in his chest, something quietly but surely took on heat.
That evening.
Minato's smartphone buzzed.
The screen showed an incoming call from Mashiba Tooru.
Minato hesitated for a moment, then pressed the call button.
"Hello."
"Minato-san, this is Mashiba. I apologize for the sudden call."
Mashiba's voice was polite, as always.
"I saw the Shiomi Daily article. It's become a topic at headquarters as well."
"At headquarters too?"
"Yes. And so, there's something I'd like to tell you."
Mashiba paused for a beat, then spoke.
"Headquarters has decided to reconsider the local voices. The redevelopment plan is on hold."
Minato held his breath. The back of his throat was parched.
"...Is that true?"
"Yes. However, it is only a temporary suspension. The plan has not been scrapped. I hope you can understand that."
Caution still lingered in Mashiba's voice.
"I understand. Thank you, Mashiba-san."
"No. I simply judged, after seeing your photographs, that I should convey this to headquarters. Goodbye."
The call ended.
Minato stood frozen for a while, still gripping his smartphone. The echo of Mashiba's voice lingered deep in his ears.
(A suspension.)
(My photographs changed this town's future, just a little.)
Minato looked out the window.
Beyond the harbor, the evening sun was about to set.
The surface of the sea burned gold. Through the window glass, that light warmed Minato's cheek gently.
(But this isn't my strength alone.)
(The people of this town made the exhibition happen.)
(Yuuma let me photograph him.)
(Kento told me about the mortgage.)
Minato quietly kept watching the sunset.
A few days later.
Minato stood in front of the Matsubaya storefront.
Yuuma had called him there.
"Minato, Kento. Today I have something to tell you both."
Yuuma stood in front of the shop in his white kappou apron.
Beside him was Kento.
A deep navy suit. Black hair neatly parted in a seven-three ratio. An expensive wristwatch on his left wrist.
Kento looked a little tired.
"Yuuma, what's this about, getting all formal?"
Kento spoke in a light tone.
Yuuma looked at each of their faces in turn.
Then he took a deep breath and spoke.
"I'm going to protect this shop myself."
Yuuma's voice was quiet.
But his eyes looked straight ahead.
"The mortgage, the redevelopment — I won't carry it all alone anymore. I might cause you trouble. But I'm going to protect this shop with my own hands."
At Yuuma's words, Minato felt something tremble deep in his chest.
(Yuuma said it himself — that he'll protect it.)
(When he'd been carrying it all alone for so long.)
Kento stepped forward. His footsteps rang briefly on the stone paving of the storefront.
"I'm going to talk to my father properly, too."
Kento's voice was low and serious.
"I'll talk to him as many times as it takes until the mortgage terms are reset. I won't keep secrets from you anymore."
Kento looked Yuuma straight in t
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