Julian wore a jacket, earphones, no umbrella—same as always.
When he walked in, water was still dripping from his hair.
The shoulders of his coat were visibly damp.
She stood behind the counter.
On the wooden table, she laid down a single black-and-white print.
Large.
Clean.
Still wet at the edges.
Julian wore his jacket and earphones as usual. No umbrella.
When he stepped inside, he took off the earphones.
Water dripped from his hair, tracing a path down his neck.
The shoulders of his coat were darkened with rain.
She stood behind the counter and laid a single enlarged black-and-white print flat on the wooden surface.
"I only developed one," she said. "The rest are still in the darkroom. Takes time."
Julian didn't say anything. He walked over and sat down.
Lowered his gaze to the photograph.
It was the rooftop shot.
His profile, cut by light.
Expression unreadable.
But the entire frame was still, steady—
like something had been caught in that moment and hadn't moved since.
"It's part of a series," she said quietly. "I called it Exposure."
Julian stared at the photo for a long time.
She continued.
"I made you part of a story. Not the background."
He didn't respond right away.
Only after a while did he speak.
"You're the first person… who thought I had a story."
She didn't reply.
Just flipped the photo over and placed it gently at the bottom of the stack.
"If you'd like," she said, "once I finish the rest—I'll send them to you."
He nodded.
A few nights later, Julian came again.
No message.
No appointment.
He arrived earlier than usual.
The sky hadn't turned fully dark.
The shop sign still said open.
He didn't knock or press the bell.
He stood outside for a while.
She saw him from inside and walked over, flipping the sign to: closed
She didn't ask why he was there.
Just turned and walked back in.
He took off his coat and hung it neatly.
Wandered between the bookshelves.
Pulled out a few photo books, then placed them back.
As if waiting for rain.
Or an answer he already knew wouldn't come.
She was putting away books.
"You've been quiet these past few days," she said.
Julian answered softly.
"This visit… feels different from the last."
She smiled lightly, without asking more.
"That's okay. You weren't planning to stay anyway, right?"
Silence.
Julian walked to the door.
Paused.
Then said, "I leave tomorrow."
She nodded.
"I figured you're not the kind to say goodbye."
He shook his head.
"Can't say it."
She didn't walk him out.
Just returned to the counter.
Lit a cigarette.
The flame flickered near her fingers, followed by the faint smell of smoke—familiar, almost calming.
Julian placed his hand on the doorknob and paused.
"The photos—"
"I'll send them," she interrupted.
He nodded.
The door opened.
A breeze came in.
The bell chimed once.
She didn't look up.
He didn't look back.
The door closed slowly.
Silence returned to the room.
In that moment, Julian was quietly preserved.
Mornings in London were colder than Kyoto.
The sun hadn't risen yet when something slid through the mail slot with a soft thud.
Julian came downstairs and saw a brown envelope lying on the hallway carpet.
There was no sender listed.
The stamp was Japanese.
The return address read:
Kyoto – Gojo-zaka
He recognized the handwriting.
The envelope was thin but neatly pressed.
Julian brought it back inside, took a pair of scissors, and carefully opened it.
Inside were several black-and-white prints.
No tape.
No binding.
Each one was tucked into its own lightproof sleeve.
She had photographed him on the street a few times during those days—without telling him.
The first photo showed him standing beneath the eaves, smoking.
His shoulders slightly raised.
Expression unreadable.
Like he had just stepped away from someone's gaze.
The second was under a streetlamp, by a crossing.
His face blurred, posture uncertain.
He looked like he was waiting for something.
Or like he had forgotten what he was waiting for.
The third was from behind, after rain.
His shirt clung to his back.
Creases around the collar.
One hand holding his jacket, the other clutching a phone he wasn't looking at.
The last one was from the rooftop.
He sat by the edge of the wall, half his face caught in light and shadow.
His expression couldn't be read.
And there was no way to tell if his posture was intentional.
But the photo had a strange kind of steadiness.
As if he had finally stopped moving.
At the bottom of the stack was a small beige slip of paper, handwritten in Japanese:
What I really wanted to capture was the face you make right before you blink.
Julian sat on the kitchen bench for a long time, staring at the photos.
In them, he wasn't posing.
He wasn't staring into the lens.
He wasn't trying to claim space in the frame.
He was just there—
Looking down.
Walking.
Waiting.
Smoking.
Not performing strength.
Not defending anything.
Not proving a thing.
It was a version of himself he had never seen in London.
He had been photographed before,
ID cards.
Team headshots.
Those staged spreads in trading department yearbooks labeled Asian Excellence.
But in those pictures, he wasn't a person.
He was a symbol.
That guy who's good at math.A diversity success story.
She was the first one who made him look like a person.