🌊 Salt in the Wind Episode 10: The Man in the Photograph
The morning light in Kołobrzeg was pale and cold, the kind that made everything feel like memory. Ren stood at the window of the hostel, staring at the photo wall. His eyes kept drifting to one image: Masaru, older, standing alone by the sea. It had been tucked inside the tin box, folded behind the letter.
Aleksy arrived with two coffees and a quiet look. "You've been up all night?"
Ren nodded. "I keep thinking about this photo. It's not from the 1940s. It's recent. Maybe the 90s."
Aleksy leaned in. "That's Masaru. He came back."
Ren pulled out the photo and flipped it over. On the back, in faded ink: Kołobrzeg, 1996. Waiting.
Aleksy sat down slowly. "My grandfather died that year."
Ren looked at him. "Do you think they met?"
Aleksy shook his head. "He never mentioned it. But he did say something once—about a man who came to the lighthouse and asked to sleep there. Said he didn't want to be anywhere else."
Ren's breath caught. "Masaru stayed in the lighthouse?"
Aleksy nodded. "Just one night. Then he disappeared."
They stared at the photo in silence. The man in it looked tired, but peaceful. As if the sea had finally answered him.
Ren pulled out the leather-bound notebook again, flipping to the final pages. There was a poem, written in Japanese. Aleksy watched as Ren translated slowly.
"I walked the shore where you vanished.
I spoke to the wind, and it answered.
You are not gone.
You are the tide."
Aleksy closed his eyes. "He believed Aleksander was still here."
Ren whispered, "Maybe he was."
They decided to visit the lighthouse again, this time with the photo and notebook in hand. The keeper let them in without question—word had spread about their search, and the town's silence was beginning to crack.
At the top of the tower, Ren placed the photo on the windowsill. The sea stretched out, endless and indifferent.
Aleksy opened the notebook and read the poem aloud, voice trembling.
When he finished, the wind picked up, rattling the glass. Ren turned to him. "Do you feel it?"
Aleksy nodded. "Like something's listening."
They stayed until dusk, watching the waves. Before leaving, Ren tucked the photo into a crevice in the wall, beneath a loose stone.
"He waited here," Ren said. "Let him stay."
Back in town, they passed the old bakery. The owner, an elderly woman with sharp eyes, stepped outside.
"You're the boys looking for ghosts," she said.
Aleksy smiled. "Something like that."
She nodded. "Masaru came here once. Bought bread. Said it reminded him of someone."
Ren stepped forward. "Did he say who?"
She looked at him. "A boy who used to write poems on napkins. Left them on the counter."
Aleksy's eyes widened. "Aleksander."
She reached into her apron and pulled out a faded napkin. "I kept one."
Ren took it gently. The ink was smudged, but the words were clear.
"If you find this, you've found me.
If you read this, you've heard me.
I am not lost.
I am waiting."
Aleksy whispered, "He left breadcrumbs."
Ren looked at him. "And Masaru followed every one."
They walked back to the hostel in silence, the napkin folded between them like a prayer.
That night, Ren added it to the wall. The collage was no longer just a mystery—it was a love story, stitched together by time and longing.
Aleksy stood beside him, eyes on the final photo.
"He waited," he said. "And maybe, just maybe, he found him."
Ren didn't answer. He just reached out and turned off the light.
The wind outside carried the sound of waves.