Kino no Tabi:Volume16 Special2

Photo's Day to Day 「Things Left Behind」 —Return—

My name is Sou. I'm a motorrad (Note: a two-wheeled vehicle. Just note that it cannot fly).

I was designed to be stored in a small car's trunk, so I'm kind of a weird motorrad. My frame is already small, but stuff like my handles and seat can be folded up, so I'm even more compact. I can't go that fast though.

My rider and owner is named Photo. Sex: Female. Age: 17. Has black hair that goes halfway down her back.

Photo and I used to be the possessions of a group of merchants. I was merchandise; Photo was a slave.

By some trick of fate, we had an unbelievably run of good luck. The merchants were all wiped out by eating poison.

Photo became free and I became her partner.

A bunch of stuff happened and we made it to our current country, where we started to make a life. A bunch more stuff happened here and Photo became rich, but — she loves photography so much that she works as a photographer on request.

And that's where her name comes from. She has no past name.

—

A certain day.

"I want to take a picture of a snowy landscape!" The master of this house, the master of this shop, that is, Photo — jumped to her feet and said.

The afternoon news on the radio had said that snow was piling up in the mountains to the north. In the central district where we lived, it was still autumn, the season of brilliantly colored trees, but this country was astoundingly large.

Photo had shot several landscapes — no, she had taken dozens or maybe even hundreds of landscapes, but none of them were snowy landscapes.

"I bet the snowy landscapes up in the mountains must be wonderful! Sou! Let's go right now!"

Photo said it so simply and happily — but no, hold on. It's not that simple at all.

Photo had abandoned her lunch and grabbed the camera hanging in the entryway, looking ready to fly out of the house immediately.

"Sit down. Finish your food and listen," I said to her.

"Okay." Photo flopped into her chair and resumed eating.

Today's lunch was a sandwich of cheese, ham, and lettuce between two slices of bread, with a bit of mayonnaise and mustard drizzled on. Also, an apple and a cup of tea.

I say "today's lunch," but it should really be "the same thing for lunch today."

Photo was more than wealthy enough to order luxurious meals every day, but things were always like this instead. I think it's better to get nutrients when you're young, but whatever, let's forget that for now.

I was propped up on my center stand in the living room, at a spot near the door, and next to the table. My usual spot.

"I know you want to shoot the snowy landscape. I'm not against that."

Munch munch. Yeah yeah.

Photo chewed and nodded.

"But, as I think you already know, you can't ride me on a snowy road. I mean, if there's only a little snow, and you keep your feet on the ground, it's not impossible — but if there's ice, it's a definite no-go."

Munch munch. Yeah yeah.

"So you'll have to rent a truck like normal, but that's where I have a suggestion to make — Photo, it's about time you bought one."

Munch much. Yeah yeah, yeah?

"Buy one? A truck? Us?" Photo stopped eating to ask. Verb, object, subject; in that order.

She had always rented a small truck in town whenever she needed to travel long distances or carry anything heavy, but those times had been getting more and more frequent, lately. Soon, it wouldn't cost any more to just outright own a truck instead.

"Buy one. Then you won't have to go into town to rent one every time. Keep a full set of camera equipment inside and load me in there too. Then you can go wherever you need to, whenever you want. When you get on-site, you can bring me down and ride me then. Doesn't that sound attractive?"

"Hmm. I guess so," Photo thought it over as she ate her apple, which was sliced into eight pieces. Photo liked to eat them with the skin still on. "It's an investment, right? If it's for work, it can't be helped."

"It can't be helped" is what Photo said out loud, but she knew full well that having a truck would make photography even more fun for her, and she looked a bit happy.

Well, she didn't have to be stingy if there was a good reason to spend money.

"Got it! Okay! Let's buy a small truck! Then let's go shoot a snowy landscape!"

—

And so —

Two days later, a new business appliance arrived for "the photographer on Poplar Street."

It was a truck that was mostly used in this country by the wealthier farmers.

Aside from the "wealthier" ones, most of the farmers in this country still used carts pulled by horses, oxen, or mules. Private automobiles were still only for the rich.

The truck we'd bought was small, with two seats, but it could carry up to 400kg. Including me, of course.

The undercarriage was sturdily built, so it could run over even rough roads. Except for the fact that it wasn't a very smooth ride, it was a useful vehicle.

The new truck shined in its fresh blue paint. There were used vehicles available, but a lot of them had been run hard by farm work, so we gave up on that.

"Hmm. Very cute, very cute. Nice to meet you! Oh, should we come up with a name for you?"

"You can, but it won't respond, you know?"

"Oh... Then let's not."

"… Thanks."

After that, Photo loaded me onto the truck and tied me down with rope so I wouldn't fall over, and we went on a tide drive.

At the very least, the small truck ran well on the narrow paths that cut between the fields. Photo had come here to this country, driving for 15 days in a much heavier truck, that would have been suited for crossing an entire continent, so driving this truck wasn't much of a problem for her.

Once she'd gotten a good handle on it, and we were driving smoothly along, I said, "Hey Photo. You might as well advertise your business."

"Advertise? How?"

"Don't worry, you'll see. Let's head towards town. Take a right at the next intersection."

And so, Photo met with the town's painter and had the words "The Photographer on Poplar Street" painted on both sides of the truck. Below was the address for requesting work via mail.

"Now you'll be advertising just by driving around?"

"Sou! You're amazing! You're a genius!"

Well, I'm no idiot, but I'm not exactly a genius either.

If anything, it was weird that this sort of advertisement wasn't on every vehicle in the country.

—

"Okay! Let's go!"

It was early morning, just a few days after Photo had suddenly said she wanted to shoot a snowy landscape.

"Sure. Off we go."

We set off into the north.

I was loaded into the back of the truck, and Photo was driving. The rest of the truck bed was piled up with boxes.

The sturdy metal boxes contained a full set of photography equipment.

There were a number of expensive SLR cameras, a number of lenses, a tripod, and a ton of film. To prevent theft, the truck bed was secured with chains and locks.

In the cab of the truck, Photo had a sleeping bag and a blanket so she could sleep there, and food and water so we wouldn't have to buy supplies on the road. It was fit for a grand adventure.

Photo wore her long black hair in a three-strand braid that fell in front of her.

She had on a pair of thick, khaki pants, a brown, wool sweater, and a vest for photography, with lots of pockets. Lacking in feminine charm, as always. And, since we were headed into the snow, she also had gloves, a knit cap, winter boots, and a down jacket.

"Great weather, huh. Perfect for photography, huh."

Beneath the winter's morning sun, surrounded by poplar trees that had lost almost all of their leaves, the small truck drove down the road.

From the container, I talked to Photo through the open window into the cab.

"I memorized everything about the route. I'll let you know whenever the road starts winding. If you start feeling tired, let me know right away."

"Got it. Is it okay to stop if I want to take a picture along the way?"

"Sure, but if you take too many, you'll run of out film before you can photograph what you really want. Don't forget your end-goal."

"Yeah, you're right. Got it."

That was how we'd left in the morning.

Along the way, we stopped to rest for a few pictures, and once more for lunch. By the time we reached the snow-kissed foot of the mountains, it was already dusk.

Seriously, this country is way too big.

—

That night.

"Huh? I can lay down just fine on the seats! I'm not going to waste money!"

"Oh come on, just find a place to stay! You've been driving all day. You're definitely more tired than you expected."

"I've driven for 15 days straight before, remember?"

"That was an emergency. How are you going to take pictures out in the cold snow tomorrow if you're exhausted?"

We'd spent the whole day driving, and we'd come a long way north. It was already cold where we were, and at night, the temperature would drop close to below zero. Somehow, I managed to convince Photo that it was better to stay at an inn than try to save money.

The inn's matron was suspicious whether someone as young as Photo actually had money to pay. I guess she might have thought Photo was some apprentice that had stolen the truck from work and run away.

When I offered to pay upfront, she finally gave in and let us stay. Photo was extremely wealthy — enough to buy this entire inn if she really wanted — but it was probably best not to say so.

Facing out towards the road, the entrance to our room was next to a parking lot. Photo parked the truck out front, and then brought me into the room with the camera equipment.

Photo scarfed down the bread she'd brought and then started servicing a camera on top of the bed.

"It's so exciting, huh. I'm gonna wake up early tomorrow! I'm not sleepy at all!"

"Yeah yeah. So where are we going tomorrow? You can photograph the snow from anywhere around here."

"Uhh let's see." Photo brought out a map and said, "Here!" pointing past the mountain roads at a village.

There in the heart of the mountains was a name and the symbol for a village.

"If there's a village out in a crazy place like that, I want to photograph it!"

She was right, it was an insane place for a village.

The contours on the map were drawn really closely together there, which mean it was in a pretty deep ravine. It didn't look that far away, just from the map, but the road twisted and turned. Proof that it was a mountain road.

"Got it. You'll have to be more careful driving than ever before. Even with me giving instructions."

"Okay!"

Photo always agreed readily like that.

—

The next day, late morning.

We looked down at the snowy village.

"Pretty! It's so pretty, huh Sou!" Photo was being emotional and smashing down on the camera shutter.

"Yeah, the scenery here's not bad," I replied, still loaded on the back of the truck.

We were on a mountain ridge.

We'd been trudging, climbing up the snowy path in the truck, and now we were at the peak. The road opened up into a wide viewing platform.

The sky was cloudy, but there was no snow whipping around. From the ground to the sky, the world was painted in white.

The truck's wheels had chains put on.

Photo had climbed in the truck, slowly and steadily over the slippery road. She definitely didn't want the brand new truck breaking down here, not even one-ten thousandth of a chance. It had taken us quite a long time to get here.

"Ooh! Cute! It's so pretty and cute!"

Photo spoke as if all her exhaustion from driving had already been blown away. She set the tripod on the truck bed and use the long-range lens to take pictures of the village.

The village was cute, just like Photo said.

It was easy to see from up high. Down in the narrow chasm, 53 houses were lined up, all in a row.

The rooftops were angled at 60 degrees to help snow fall off of them, and they were painted in a flashy red color, like tropical fish. The walls were painted an equally vivid green, creating a magnificent contrast. Red triangles and green pentagons, growing out of the snow.

"Hey, Sou! I bet the countries you hear about in fairytales are just like that!" Photo said.

She was replacing the film in her camera, which she had done so many times before that she could probably do it with her eyes closed and still be quick about it. Almost like a trained soldier, replacing the gunpowder and bullets in a persuader (Note: a persuader is a gun).

We were there for a while, as Photo took pictures from the ridge.

When Photo was being thorough about her landscape shots, she wrote down the shutter speeds and aperture sizes she used onto a small notepad.

After she had had her fun, Photo lit the small stove that was loaded on the truck, and heated up a can of soup. She at the soup standing up, dipping some of the cold bread into it for a while to warm it back up.

Maybe due to the cloudy weather, the temperature today wasn't too low (On clear days, the Earth radiates more heat away, and it gets way colder).

Still, thick plumes of steam came up from the hot soup. Enough that from time to time, I couldn't make out Photo's face on the other side.

"Looking out at the snow like this and eating hot food is... really nice, huh," Photo said as she ate, sounding deeply moved.

"I guess. It's not possible for those that died, that's for sure," I said subconsciously.

After we started living here, we hadn't really talked about what happened on that mountain again.

"…"

I looked over at Photo, who had stopped moving, and for a second, I wondered if she was lowering her eyes.

"You're right," Photo said, looking straight at me with her big, dark eyes, neither crying nor smiling. "Right now I'm doing what the dead can't."

With that, she held up the camera that was hanging from her neck and pointed it in my direction. "Sou! Smile!"

Click. With a tiny sound, she took my picture.

I don't know whether I was smiling.

—

After the photography session on the ridge was over, we started our descent towards the village.

As we made our way into the valley, the amount of snow on the ground increased. The snow reached up to 20 centimeters, and the truck drove on the mountain path at the same speed a human might walk. There were no other vehicles.

We intended to go into the village like this, but to them, Photo and I were "strangers."

I had no clue whether they would actually let us in, just to take pictures.

So we had decided that as soon as we met a villager, we would ask. If they gave us permission, we would take pictures, but if not, we'd give up and leave quietly. If we left right away, we should be able to make it back over the mountain by nightfall.

The village probably didn't have an inn. If we were going to take pictures, we'd be spending tonight in the truck.

"Maybe they'll get mad at us..." Photo said nervously from the cab.

I didn't know how it would go either. We just had to take a shot.

We came to the end of the mountain path.

Be could see the cute houses that were packed into the forest of conifer trees.

—

"Wonderful, huh! Beautiful, huh! We have to go again, huh!"

Back at the house on Poplar Street, in the section we used as a photogrpahy shop, Photo was shaking as she looked through the film of the shots she took.

The lightbox was on the table, and on it was the film that had just been developed.

The reversal film that Photo uses could be viewed if light as shined through it (very different from negative film, which can only be viewed after it's developed into prints).

The gray, snowy world and the colorful village were all there, through Photo's loupe.

Ten days had passed since the photography trip.

On that day, when we went into the village — the elderly villagers gave us an enthusiastic welcome.

I guess they saw us while we were coming down the mountain.

Many elderly villagers were waiting for us at the village's entrance, and then brought us into the village in celebration, "There's a girl here to take photographs!"

The village was all elderly folk, children, and women; there were no working-age men. That was natural for them though. In the winter, the men took a break from farming, woodcutting, and hunting in order to go into town and find work before the snow came. That additional income had been supporting the village for years.

That was part of life here in this remote village and in these peculiar houses. This stupidly-big country was full of diverse places, and this was just one of them.

They told us about their history, and it seems that in the past, there were more villages in the mountains. Before this country was unified, those villages used the mountains in place of walls and watchposts.

But once the country was formed, people left the harsh mountain life for more convenient lives elsewhere, and the number of villages dwindled. These days, there were only a few other places like that.

Since villages like that were so rare, I thought maybe they should try to make it a tourist attraction, which might enrich the country a little more.

Photo got to take pictures of the snowy landscapes she'd dreamed about, as well as several shots of the smiling villagers.

It was the first time any of them had had their picture taken. They had all begged to be photographed, "Me too, me too," and they had thanked Photo with more meat and fish than she could eat.

Every single one of the elderly people we met had said the same thing to Photo. The exact same thing.

And every time she heard it, Photo happily replied, "Okay!" and took a picture of the village.

In the end, Photo stayed at the village chief's house for two nights, and spent the whole time taking pictures.

If she hadn't run out of film (and we had brought a lot of film), we might have stayed even longer.

On the morning of the third day, Photo took another picture of the clear, morning landscape in the snow, and then everyone in the village — even though they totaled less than 100 — saw us off.

After that, it took a full day and a half to make it back here.

The large amount of film that we'd taken to the developing studio had just been finished for us to pick up this morning.

Photo peeked at the film through her loupe, and made markings by the shots she liked.

"Sou! There were some bad ones, but I got a bunch of great pictures! Even the villagers! Let's go back there in the spring!"

The village was going to be shut out by the heavy snowfall soon, so we wouldn't be able to go there with the small truck for the rest of the winter. Mailing the pictures wouldn't work either. Only the bare minimum of supplies necessary for emergencies could be sent, so the regular mail service couldn't make it through.

So I said, "Yeah, we'll have to go again. In the spring. They'll love it."

Once spring came and the snow melted, we'd go back to the village with the finished pictures.

We had a plan.

—

Well —

If this was the end of the story, that would have been fine.

—

The winter was close to ending.

We heard that the village was hit by one of the largest avalanches ever, and 20% of the villagers had lost their lives in the disaster.

Just like before, when we had heard about the snowfall to the north, Photo and I were listening to the radio around noon.

The announcer read it very matter-of-factly, as if it were a simple fact and happened all the time. He didn't even pause after that before moving on to discussing the upcoming parliamentary election.

"Sou!" Photo had just been about to start eating her sandwich, but now her expression changed and she stood up.

"Yeah, that's the village. What a disaster."

"W-we have to go! We have to go! We have to go! Because, because... Sou! We have to go! We have to go!"

"That's enough — I know what you're thinking. But we can't get there today. Plus, you have photography work at the elementary school and the farms here tomorrow and the day after, don't you? We can go after that's done."

"Yeah, but... Yeah, but... Yeah, but... Yeah, but..."

—

Even with her eyes clouded over, Photo finished her work. The two days of photography that were requested were finally over.

In that time, Photo had been listening to the radio without pause. She even bought the newspaper in the mornings, but there were no further reports about that village.

It was a shockingly huge country. An accident that caused a dozen or so deaths out in a remote part of the country that no one knew about just wasn't interesting to people.

That night, Photo wordlessly put the photos she'd been planning to show them into a file folder.

Photo had racked her brain while picking out pictures from the large quantity of film she'd used and had had them printed at a small, picture-frame size.

Then, early the next morning, we got into the small truck and left.

Poplar Street was already warming up and it felt like spring was around the corner, but in the mountains we were heading to, the snow was still piled high.

I watched over Photo to make sure she didn't press too hard on the accelerator in her impatience. We ran north without stopping to take pictures. We stayed the night at the same inn we had before.

The woman there remembered Photo quite well.

Here, we heard a bit more of the news about the avalanche. According to the innkeeper, the men from the village that were away on work had come rushing back in a panic, two days ago.

Right now, I guess they'd still be more focused on clearing up the damage than trying to rebuild. More focused on whether they could make it through the snow.

I wondered if Photo was going to prepare for tomorrow and then go straight to bed.

Instead, she said, "Let's go eat something!"

She took me on a rare excursion out to a nearby restaurant. Then, just as rare, she spent a reasonable amount of money, and ate her fill of some hearty-looking food.

"Ah, I ate too much," Photo said from the inn's bed, as she fell asleep.

—

The next day.

The weather outside was perfect.

—

We reached the mountain ridge and looked down.

The avalanche that had come down the mountain was covering the village, and there were colorful wreckages peeking out of the snow. It was a tragic sight. Something, somewhere had started an avalanche, and it had destroyed close to 30% of the village.

The snow had all fallen from the slope, so it seemed that there wouldn't be any further avalanches.

We descended over the mountain path, where most of the snow had melted, on towards the village.

Just before the entrance to the village, there were several vehicles parked where a large space had been cleared. They were machinery transport vehicles with treads, but otherwise they looked similar to our small truck.

These vehicles weren't here before, so they must either have been the vehicles that the village's men had returned in or the vehicles that were being used to help clean up the debris. There was no one nearby.

Photo parked the truck here and pulled me out, down from the cargo area.

I don't know whether the snow had been removed by the villagers or simply melted away, but either way, the streets were clear. I was thankful to be able to run on it.

Photo had her favorite single-lens camera hanging from her neck and film in the pockets of her winter clothing and in her backpack as she took me out for a ride.

I really wanted to tell her to wear a helmet, but I let her get away with not wearing one when she was going around and taking pictures.

As soon as we entered the village, we saw the first place that had been hit by the avalanche.

The snow that had crashed down from the right-hand mountainside had cut down the trees in its path and then slammed into the village houses with a considerable amount of force.

It wasn't just snow. Large trees had snapped and tumbled in as well. All five of the houses there had been completely destroyed. Ironically, the forest there was supposed to protect against avalanches.

I remembered who lived in those houses from the three days we spent in the village.

I don't know whether Photo remembered, but, well, she probably didn't forget.

"…"

Photo brought me to a stop and looked at the scene — and then held up her camera.

I think she hesitated for about three seconds.

Then, click.

She took one shot. The film rolled, and she took another one.

Then, after the third shot, a man's voice came calling, "Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

The man was maybe 30 years old, with a stern face and a figure that was tall and broad.

He must be one of the men that had been out of the village for work and had rushed back here. He appeared from the other side of the wreckage and steadily came closer, making his way through the snow with a practiced stride.

Noticing the man's voice, five other men's heads popped out from the rubble, like moles.

The first man — why don't we call just him "the male villager" for now? He continued to walk towards Photo, with anger on his face.

"…"

Photo didn't say anything, but dismounted me and propped me up on my center stand.

Then she waited for the male villager and the other men behind him to approach.

"You're not from around here. Who are you?" the male villager asked, looking down at Photo. Behind him, the other men were whispering things like, "Do you know her?" "Nope."

"My name is Photo. I live in the central district. I came here before to take pictures of the village."

Photo's voice didn't falter, even though she was a step away from a man that was two heads taller than her.

"This is my partner, Sou."

Yes, hello.

"So what? I don't care about your motorrad."

Hey hey, what do you mean you don't care? I thought it, but I didn't say it. I wasn't that that oblivious to the mood here. I let Photo handle the talking for now. Besides, it was interesting.

"What I wanna know is why you're going around taking pictures as you please! You just took some, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Is it fun? Taking pictures of the state our village is in, is that fun for you? Huh?" the man shouted.

"It's not fun at all. But I took the picture because I thought it was necessary."

Ahaha. Photo just came right out and said it.

I couldn't see Photo's face, but I could see the anger rise on the male villager's face at her perfect response.

"Y... you bitch! What about this is necessary? People died here! There are still bodies buried under there! We lost our homes, the village is in ruins, we don't know what we're going to do from here on out. What part of any of that is 'necessary' to you?"

It's not like I couldn't understand why the man was angry. Those were his honest, human feelings. Well, not that I was human. But you know, as a sapient being.

Photo replied immediately, "'Pictures of the village' are. When I came here before, all of the elderly men and women here told me the same thing. 'Leave a record of the village,' they said. They said it over and over and over!"

That was true.

During our stay, they had been very intent on that.

In this village where no one had been photographed before, the scenes of the past would eventually be lost to time, except for in their memories.

Those memories wouldn't be around forever either. When they died, their memories would die with them.

The elders, who knew that kind of pain well, asked Photo to create a detailed record of the village for them. They hoped for her to preserve the village forever.

That was why Photo had shot so many pictures. She shot and shot and shot.

She took the beautiful village and saved them into beautiful film.

So, that's why —

When she heard about the village's destruction, she was of course worried for the villagers, but she also felt that she needed to record this as well.

Photo yelled, "Even if it was destroyed! That's still part of the village's history! This is a moment that needs to be passed down to future generations! Even if they're sad memories, they have to be kept!"

"…"

Photo didn't flinch at all, looking at the man that was far bigger than herself.

"And when the village is rebuilt by everyone's hard work, this will be precious evidence of that history! So if I don't take these pictures right now, then who will?!"

With that rebuke, Photo reached into her backpack and drew out the thick file folder.

She pushed it out towards the male villager.

"W... What?"

Photo didn't respond; she just kept holding it out. I couldn't see, but I'm sure she was making quite a face.

The male villager hesitantly took the folder, removed his wet leather gloves, and then opened up the cardboard folder. He saw the pictures inside.

"Ah..."

At the male villager's sigh, the others behind him leaned in to look, and were similarly struck speechless.

That was only natural.

The pictures inside were of the village as it was.

The beautiful village that they'd held in their memories and waited to return to.

The male villager's hands shook slightly as he passed the pictures back. Then his hands stopped at one of the pictures.

The male villager's eyes widened, and the men behind him let out murmurs.

I could tell what was in the picture, more-or-less, at least.

"M-mom... No way... It's a picture of Mom..." the male villager muttered. "I can't believe it... Mom's smiling... and there's the house..."

The man's house had been swallowed up. His mother had died.

He had probably thought that he would never get to see his mother's smile ever again.

But he was wrong.

His stern face distorted and tears sprung from both of his eyes, but the male villager still stayed staring at the picture. The men behind him wore meek expressions as they looked at their friend and the picture.

Photo took a few steps to the side, prepared her camera, and took a shot of the scene.

As usual, she was only courageous in these strange situations.

The crisp sound of the shutter brought the men back to their senses, and they looked at Photo. But they didn't make any sounds of condemnation or anger.

"I'll come to this village again. I'll continue shooting records until the village is back to the way it used to be." Photo faced the male villager, tears still in his eyes, "So — I'll be waiting for the day the village is rebuilt."

—

Photo (and I) met the elders of the village again.

They cried tears of joy to see her again, and when she offered her sympathies and handed them the pictures, they cried even more.

They were pictures of their dead family members and friends. There were also pictures of Photo being treated to a delicious meal by the village chief's wife.

The men returned to the repairs, and Photo returned to her photography.

No one else tried to stop Photo. They fell into their work with determination and sweat, as Photo took several pictures.

The labor wasn't progressing, with just the village's men there to work on the repairs. After another two hours, they finally managed to recover one of the dead bodies.

At this rate, how long would it take? Right now the villagers were living together in the houses that remained standing, but they couldn't live like that forever.

I said to Photo, "Hey, that's enough for today, isn't it? Let's go home."

"Huh? Right now? I was expecting you to say it's too far of a drive."

"The circumstances have changed. If we leave now, we can make it over the mountains before it gets dark. Once we're back on level ground, you can take a nap and then keep driving. We should be able to make it back by noon tomorrow."

"Sure... but why?"

Photo asked, her doubts clear on her face, and I responded.

—

"15 Days since the Tragic Disaster on This Beautiful Village. Having Received the Goodwill of the Country, They Show Signs of Steady Recovery," read the headline.

Below was an article that went into more detail about the village.

It talked about how the country had pitched in their support to help the village recover.

Soldiers had already been dispatched to help clear away the snow from the avalanche site. Donations were pouring in from the citizens.

Photo held the newspaper in her hands.

She was still learning to read, so I read the article for her.

Several days worth of newspapers were stacked on the desk. The latest newspaper contained several large pictures.

They were, of course, the ones that Photo had taken.

A picture of the houses that had been brutally destroyed in the avalanche. A picture of the elders and children taking refuge in their friends' homes. A picture of a dead body, covered by a blanket. A picture of the village in a happier time.

And — a picture labeled, "Man crying at a picture of his dead mother."

The newspaper was printed in white and black, but still, that didn't weaken the power of the pictures' message.

That day, I had Photo take the pictures to the news media.

It wasn't something we had ever done before. Photo wasn't a journalist, and she didn't care to go chasing after scandals and accidents.

But the circumstances were what they were. This time was an exception.

Photo agreed to my suggestion, and she pushed herself to drive all-night so that we could make it back to the central district in the early morning. The fruits of her effort were there in the next day's newspaper.

The story spread through the general populace and so did the outpouring of support.

Donations were collected, and the government started moving.

Well, it didn't hurt that the politicians were eager to look good, with elections as close as they were.

—

"Hey Sou," Photo said, as she set the newspaper down on the desk, "when should we go back?"

She didn't say it outright, but it was obvious that she meant the village.

The reconstruction of the village had become Photo's photography theme. She probably wanted to photograph it all year-round.

"Good question. Other than four days from now, when you have work, anytime is fine, don't you think?" I said, without thinking too much about it.

"Hey Sou. Would it be wrong to take less work so we can go to the village more often...?"

I was quite surprised by Photo's reserved question.

"No no! There's nothing wrong with that at all!"

It's not like Photo had an obligation to work in the first place. She had plenty of money. It would be fine if she even wanted to set aside the entire year just to photograph the village.

"But you know, if I get requests, I still want to do them if I can."

"Remember when I told you before that you can't do the work of two people at once?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you don't have to take on the work of both 'the part of you that wants to go take pictures of the village' and 'the part of you that wants to work.'"

"Yeah?"

"Well — I do think you should live more for your own enjoyment," I said, as casually as I could, so Photo wouldn't try to overwork herself anymore.

"You're right. I'll work hard to do that."

I don't think I really got through to her.

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