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Yachi’s heard wondrous tales of inspiration; falling leaves creating an inferno of colors, the innocence in a baby’s smile, the monochrome shades of a dull, rainy morning. She’s heard of grand love stories inspiring poetry and loss inspiring those priceless paintings in museums that sometimes were too precious to even look at.

Yachi’s inspiration strikes in a much different way.

It comes in a flash on a typical evening, with Yamaguchi slurping tasteless cup ramen in her living room, eyes glued to the TV, while she fiddles with her camera. Water dribbles down his chin, though he catches it with the back of his hand — and that’s when Yachi notices.

“You have,” she notes, “freckles on your wrist.”

For Yamaguchi it’s nothing more than a passing glance. Freckles are old news; he’s still discovering new ones on his body every now and then even.

But Yachi is compelled, in a sudden way, to turn his hand over in hers and snap a picture of the cluster of faint, delicate marks on the inside of his wrist.

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