🌊 Salt in the Wind Episode 18: The Names We Speak
The gallery remained open late after the exhibition. Ren stood in the center, watching as visitors lingered in front of the portrait of Aleksander and Masaru. Some left flowers. Others left notes. One woman placed a folded scarf beneath the frame and whispered, "For the boy who loved."
Aleksy arrived with a small notebook in hand. "People are writing in the guestbook."
Ren flipped through it. Messages in Polish, Japanese, English. Some were simple: Thank you. Others were raw: I loved someone once. I never told them.
Aleksy pointed to one entry: My grandfather knew Masaru. He said he was the kindest man he ever met.
Ren exhaled. "They're remembering."
The next morning, they walked to the cemetery. Aleksy carried a small bouquet of wildflowers. Ren brought the final photo Masaru had left—the one of the tree with the carved initials.
They found Janusz's grave first. It was modest, tucked beneath a willow. Aleksy placed the flowers gently.
"He remembered when no one else did."
Ren nodded. "And he passed it on."
They moved to the edge of the cemetery, where a small, unmarked stone sat beneath a pine tree. The archivist had told them it was where Masaru had asked to be buried—quietly, without ceremony.
Ren placed the photo beside the stone. Aleksy knelt and whispered, "You waited. You believed. You loved."
They sat in silence for a long time, the wind rustling through the trees.
Later, back at the hostel, Ren began assembling a digital archive. Scanned letters. Photographs. Poems. Audio from the cassette. A transcript of the exhibition. A map of Kołobrzeg with markers: the cave, the cabin, the tree, the dock, the lighthouse.
Aleksy watched quietly. "You're building a monument."
Ren nodded. "One that can't be torn down."
That evening, they held a small gathering at the gallery. Locals came. Tourists. A few students from the university. Mrs. Nowak read one of Aleksander's poems aloud.
"I was not a storm.
I was the salt in the wind.
I was the boy who loved.
And I was real."
Aleksy stood beside her, voice steady. "We speak his name now. Aleksander Zieliński. And Masaru Takahashi. They were here. They were real. And they mattered."
The room was silent. Then someone began to clap. Slowly. Reverently.
Ren looked at Aleksy. "We did it."
Aleksy nodded. "We gave them back their names."
Outside, the sea whispered.
Inside, the story had become a song.