Julian couldn't sleep.
He didn't turn on the lights.
Didn't check his phone.
Just put on his jacket, slid on his headphones, and stepped into the night.
The jet lag hadn't passed. His stomach was empty, but his head felt full.
No lights, no phone.
Just the weight of the air and the sound of his own breath as he walked.
The inn was on the far side of the hill.
He took a ferry, then a cab into the city.
There weren't many people out. The ride was fast and quiet.
After getting off, he walked south.
Wandered through Hanamikoji, past a few izakayas still open.
The voices from inside grew fainter the farther he went.
Beneath his feet, wet stone reflected the dim yellow of the streetlamps.
He turned into a narrow alley. At the end stood a small shop, its shutter halfway open.
A sheet of paper was taped to the door, written in marker:
"Open: 20:00–03:00"
A faint light spilled from inside.
Somewhere, an old fan was turning with a low mechanical hum.
Julian paused, then stepped in.
The wind chime above the door gave a soft ring.
The air inside was cool.
It smelled faintly of paper, dust, and a trace of old incense.
No one spoke.
The fan kept turning.
Shelves stood close together, lined with books.
He walked toward the photography section.
Pulled out a book. Flipped a few pages.
Under the dim light, the photo books seemed to stare back in silence.
Most were in grayscale. Stark, still faces looked out from the covers.
From somewhere in the back,
Sakamoto Ryuichi's "Aqua" played softly.
Julian stepped up to one of the shelves and pulled out a photo book by Daido Moriyama.
The photos were harsh, high-contrast images of Tokyo streets.
Men's faces cut up by shadow. Some blurred, some frowning, some worn out or silent.
But still, they filled the frame.
He stared at them for a while.
His fingertip paused on one page.
These men could be the main characters in Tokyo.
In London, he had tried the same expressions, the same clothes, even a cleaner face.
It only made him look like a lost analyst.
No one raised a camera.
They just walked around him, quickly.
He closed the book. Let out a soft breath.
That was when a voice came from behind him.
Quiet, like it had just stepped out of a darkroom, with a trace of smoke in it.
"I'd like to take your picture."
Julian turned around.
A woman stood by the counter.
Maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven.
Her hair loosely pinned up.
She wore an old Issey Miyake coat, unbuttoned.
One hand held a cigarette.
The other carried a RICOH GR, the strap wrapped half a loop around her wrist.
She wasn't smiling.
Just watching him quietly, her gaze searching for the light.
Julian didn't reply.
But he didn't say no, either.
"You looked interesting, just now," she said softly.
"Standing there so still, like you were about to be developed."
She pressed the shutter.
The sound was almost inaudible in the room.
Still, he flinched.
She lowered the camera and gave a faint smile.
"I'll be here tomorrow night too, if you're free.
There's a rooftop nearby.
Nice view. I want to shoot a night series."
Julian looked at her.
Hesitated.
Then nodded.
The next night, he showed up.
The old apartment on Gojozaka had no elevator.
He climbed six floors without stopping.
The rooftop door was ajar.
The wind carried a touch of moisture.
He pushed the door open.
She was already there.
A tripod stood steady.
The camera aimed at the city's night skyline.
"You came," she said.
He nodded.
She glanced at his jacket, then said, almost flatly,
"You're wearing too much. The fabric reflects light."
Julian didn't argue.
He looked down and unbuttoned the jacket.
Folded it once and set it on the concrete ledge.
His white shirt caught the light. Clean.
Collar buttoned.
He stood still, automatically straightening his posture.
"Don't pose," she said, right before pressing the shutter.
"I like how you look when you're relaxed."
Julian paused.
Didn't move.
He was used to this.
Stand tall.
Tighten the core.
Drop the shoulders.
Like he was posing for a corporate headshot.
She stepped in a little closer and adjusted the angle.
"Relax. Just be yourself," she said.
Julian's gaze shifted slightly.
He didn't answer, but his posture changed.
He unfastened the first button of his shirt.
Not to expose anything.
Not to impress anyone.
It was just warm, and a little tight.
He wanted to try relaxing, just for a second.
Then the second button.
He didn't take the shirt off.
He just let a bit of air reach his collarbone.
She didn't comment.
She just kept shooting.
He stood still and let her choose the frame, adjust the aperture.
He was both subject and observer.
The wind moved through.
The sweat on his skin turned cool against the night air.
His fingers twitched, but he didn't button up again.
When she finished, she packed the camera away.
She didn't show him the photos.
"I'll develop them and send them to you," she said.
Julian didn't ask when.
He just nodded.
He looked back once at the city's outline.
The night view was ordinary,
but his heart was beating faster than usual.
A little past seven in the morning.
The wind by the Kamo River was still cool.
Julian ordered grilled salmon with rice,
and a cup of black coffee.
She asked for miso soup and tamagoyaki.
She had taken off her coat and hung it on the back of the chair.
Underneath, she wore a grey T-shirt.
Her hair was down.
She looked like she'd just walked out of a darkroom,
still carrying a trace of the night.
They sat by the window,
close to the river.
There weren't many people outside.
A few students passed by on bicycles.
The sound of water carried faintly from a distance, like a quiet echo.
Julian reached for the check.
"You shot me last night," he said.
"I owe you breakfast."
She didn't say anything.
Just nodded and split her chopsticks.
After a while, she looked up and asked,
"How long have you been in Japan?"
Julian didn't answer right away.
Then smiled.
"If you count from birth, I've been coming for years."
"Where to next?"
"London."
She nodded.
Took a sip of soup.
Put her bowl down.
"I used to live in Prague."
Julian turned to her.
"Pretty cold."
"It felt like a painting. Unreal."
She looked out the window.
"But there were plenty of little bars.
Nice place to space out alone."
He listened.
Didn't respond.
She turned her eyes back to him.
"What do you do in London?"
"I survive there."
"You're not like most Londoners I know."
Julian raised a brow.
"Not cold enough?"
She smiled.
Didn't nod.
Didn't shake her head.
"You're guarded, though. Why's that?"
Julian didn't answer right away.
He took a slow bite of rice.
Chewed.
Swallowed.
"Occupational hazard," he said.
She didn't press.
Just looked at him.
The way she looked had no judgment in it.
No intent to flatter.
Like a photographer checking light and posture.
Not to turn him into something—
just to see what he already was.
After a few seconds,
she said quietly,
"But right now, sitting here, you look… tired."
Julian didn't smile this time.
Didn't deny it.
He turned to the window.
The sun had begun to hit the surface of the river.
The light shimmered,
but it didn't sting.
"At least the sunlight's beautiful today," he said.
She didn't reply.
The wind nudged through again.
A bead of water slid down the side of his glass.
Julian put down his chopsticks, leaned back in his chair,
his eyes on the tabletop.
The silence felt mutual.
And not in need of breaking.
Another night.
The rain had just stopped.
She sent a message ahead of time.
Only one line:
"You can come see the photo tonight."