🎬 Salt in the Wind Episode 1: The Boy in the Photograph
The train hissed as it pulled into Kołobrzeg station, its brakes sighing like the sea wind Ren had imagined for months. He stepped onto the platform, camera bag slung over his shoulder, and inhaled deeply. The air was briny, cool, and carried the scent of pine and distant rain. It was nothing like Tokyo—no neon, no rush, no noise. Just quiet. And questions.
He clutched the photograph in his pocket, fingers brushing the worn edges. A boy stood alone by a lighthouse, wind tugging at his coat, eyes distant. His grandfather had kept it hidden in a journal, tucked between pages of wartime poetry. Ren had found it after the funeral, along with a single line: Kołobrzeg, 1944. I loved him.
Ren didn't know the boy's name. Didn't know if he was alive. But something in the photo—something in the way the boy looked at the horizon—had pulled Ren across continents.
The town was quiet, cobblestone streets winding like veins through old buildings. He passed cafés with lace curtains, fishermen unloading nets, and children chasing pigeons. Every corner felt like a memory waiting to be unlocked.
His hostel was modest, tucked behind a bakery that smelled of rye and cinnamon. The owner, a woman named Marta, gave him a key and a smile. "You're here for the lighthouse, aren't you?" she asked, her Polish accent soft.
Ren blinked. "How did you know?"
"Everyone comes for it eventually," she said. "It's where stories begin. Or end."
That night, Ren couldn't sleep. He lay on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the Baltic wind rattle the shutters. He pulled out the photo again, tracing the boy's face with his thumb. There was something haunting about it. Something unfinished.
The next morning, he set out early, camera in hand. The lighthouse stood at the edge of town, tall and weathered, its red brick faded by salt and time. The sea crashed below, wild and endless. Ren climbed the hill slowly, boots crunching on gravel, heart pounding.
He didn't expect anyone to be there. But as he reached the top, he saw a figure standing by the railing, staring out at the water.
The boy was tall, broad-shouldered, with tousled brown hair and a coat that flapped in the wind. He turned slightly, and Ren's breath caught.
It was him.
Or it could've been. The resemblance was uncanny—same profile, same posture, same quiet intensity. But this boy was older. Real.
Ren raised his camera instinctively, then hesitated. The boy turned fully now, eyes meeting Ren's. They were storm-gray, unreadable.
"You're not from here," the boy said, voice low.
Ren lowered the camera. "No. I'm Ren. I'm from Tokyo."
The boy nodded once. "You shouldn't be up here. It's not a tourist spot."
"I'm not a tourist," Ren said. "I'm looking for someone."
The boy's gaze sharpened. "Who?"
Ren pulled out the photo, holding it out. The boy took it, studied it for a long moment, then handed it back.
"That's my great-uncle," he said. "Aleksander Zieliński."
Ren's heart thudded. "Do you know anything about him?"
The boy hesitated. "He died in 1945. No one talks about him much."
Ren swallowed. "My grandfather… he loved him."
The boy looked away, jaw tight. "Then you're chasing ghosts."
Ren stepped closer. "What's your name?"
"Aleksy," he said. "I live here. I take care of the lighthouse."
Ren nodded slowly. "Can I talk to you? Just for a bit?"
Aleksy didn't answer right away. Then he turned and walked toward the lighthouse door. "Five minutes."
Inside, the lighthouse was dim and quiet, filled with the scent of salt and old wood. Aleksy led him to a small room with a table, a kettle, and stacks of canvases leaning against the wall.
"You paint?" Ren asked.
Aleksy shrugged. "Sometimes."
Ren glanced at one canvas. It was a stormy sea, wild and beautiful. Another showed the lighthouse under moonlight. But one caught his eye—a portrait of a boy standing by the railing, wind in his coat.
It was the photo. Reimagined. Alive.
"You painted him," Ren said.
Aleksy looked away. "I see him sometimes. In dreams."
Ren sat down slowly. "My grandfather wrote about him. Said he was the only person who ever made him feel safe."
Aleksy's jaw clenched. "He was seventeen. Aleksander. He disappeared one night. No one knew why."
Ren pulled out the journal, flipping to the entry. "He wrote: I loved him. I never got to say goodbye."
Aleksy stared at the page, then at Ren. "Why come here now?"
Ren hesitated. "I don't know. I guess… I wanted to finish the story."
Aleksy stood abruptly. "Some stories don't want to be finished."
Ren watched him, heart aching. "Do you believe in second chances?"
Aleksy didn't answer. He walked to the window, staring out at the sea. "The wind here never stops. It carries things away."
Ren stood too, stepping beside him. "Or brings them back."
They stood in silence, the sea roaring below, the lighthouse creaking with age. Ren felt something shift—something small, but real.
Aleksy turned to him. "You're staying in town?"
Ren nodded. "For a while."
Aleksy looked at him for a long moment. "Then maybe you'll find what you're looking for."
Ren smiled faintly. "Maybe I already have."
Aleksy didn't smile back. But his eyes softened, just a little.
Outside, the wind howled. But inside the lighthouse, something quiet bloomed.