I met him at a mountain hot spring. His back was big like a mountain. He called himself Torahiko. He was shooting mountains. He used to take fashion photographs in Tokyo, but got fed up. So he came to the mountain.
He took me with him to the mountain. It stretched on endlessly, big and tall. I could barely manage to keep up. Trailing behind, on follow him as I looked at his back. At the mountaintop we ate rice balls. They were very tasty.
Since then, I haven’t been able to contact him. I heard rumors about him hunting deer in Hokkaido and working in Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Station after the disaster.
Autumn has come. I have been thinking about Torahiko and dreaming of collecting winds and running around in a blue sky.
Winter has come. One day, there was a dingy envelope in the mail box with "Torahiko" scribbled in the back. There were 18 rough-grained, small prints inside.