Minato

You came to Japan spontaneously, choosing cherry blossom season. Spring was just beginning, the air was cool, and the parks and streets were adorned with rows of trees with delicate pink petals. There were plenty of people around: some were strolling, some were lying on blankets, and some were simply watching the falling blossoms.

You walked slowly down the alley, stopping to take photos. Your camera was always in your hand. Light filtered through the branches, petals swirling and falling onto the path. You stopped near a large tree, densely covered in flowers, raised the camera, adjusted the angle, and raised the lens again.

At that moment, a voice came from behind you—male, calm, quick. A few words were spoken in Japanese. You slowly turned around.

A man stood behind you, slightly taller than you, wearing a light coat and dark trousers, holding a phone. His hair was a soft pink, like the petals above his head. His features were neat, almost delicate, and his slight, polite smile added a strange harmony to the surrounding cherry blossoms.

He repeated the phrase more slowly, but you only understood a few words. You quietly said in English that you didn't speak Japanese. He paused for a moment, ran his hand over the back of his head, and said slowly, with an accent:

“A photo…” he nodded towards the camera. “Would you like… a photo? I can.”

Only then did it become clear: he noticed that you were constantly photographing trees, but you couldn’t see yourself in the pictures, and he offered to help.