On the well-known Enoden Line, I toyed with my old film camera, trying to capture the sea.
In front of me stood a middle-aged man, perhaps in his fifties. He wore sunglasses and a brimmed hat, dressed with a formal restraint, his face stern, almost archaic—clearly the kind of person who had lived through many stories, yet would never be inclined to speak of them.
His hands were remarkably defined: rough, lean, bronzed under the morning light. Throughout the journey, he kept them pressed against the glass, gazing out toward the sea. Seen through my waist-level viewfinder, his hands slipped into the frame, and to me they seemed to be crossing the boundary of the glass itself, reaching forward, as if to touch the ocean.