“36-shots”

The sea wind swept upward with force, and Slaine hastily clamped his right hand down over his cap.

The harsh glare of sunlight bouncing off the summer ocean stung his eyes, and just as he squinted into the bright emptiness—

Click.

A shutter, sudden and unannounced. Just once.

He turned over his shoulder—and of course.

There stood Inaho, only a few paces away, camera still raised.

“Hey, Inaho. How many times do I have to tell you—”

“No candid shots?”

Inaho’s voice, dry and unrepentant.

“You were standing right there. If you didn’t notice me coming, maybe that’s on you.”

Inaho held the camera casually, as always—an old rangefinder, its metal casing worn and rusted with age. It looked like it belonged to another century.

It was weighty. Mechanical. Slow.

“And that camera of yours…” Slaine began, frowning.

“Can’t see what I shot?”

Again, Inaho cut him off, deadpan.

Slaine scowled, lips pursed.

He didn’t like being second-guessed before he could even form the words. It irritated him in a way that felt far too familiar.

Inaho, unfazed, angled the camera up, then down, then to each side, tapping the bottom lightly with his index finger.

“I know how film works. If we ever get the equipment, we can develop it.”

The sun was merciless at midday, casting no shadow across Inaho’s face. His seriousness was absolute, the kind that refused irony.

Slaine sighed, defeated by the absurdity of it all, and turned back toward the ocean.

“When’s that supposed to happen?”

Blue sky, blue sea—Earth’s endless monochrome.

The wind etched shifting white lines across the waves like sketches on a blank canvas.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it.”

Something about Inaho’s deadpan sincerity over such a trivial matter made Slaine laugh.

And as he did—another soft click, swift and uninvited.