He was happy that she had come during this spell of fine weather. The garden was full of flowers. The house had the windows thrown open. This was the home that he wanted her to see. Stand at the door, I want to take a picture of you there. He had a sudden thought that he should have used black-and-white film. Somewhere in the family albums there was a picture of his mother in the same spot, a grey image of a young woman in a summer dress with one hand to the half-open door, looking out as if she was saying goodbye to someone in a departing car, of which you saw just a bulbous 1950s wing, a wheel hub and a door, and at the same time she was putting out a hand to the dog, their old retriever Jess, to stop her from running out in front of the car. But Kumiko turned to face the door and knocked. That’s lovely, he said. Better that it was colour, because her yellow dress showed up so bright against the shiny black door. There was no telling what colour his mother’s dress had been.

They walked through the garden, taking more pictures. Her dress became garish beside his mother’s old-fashioned flowers. It was disconcerting to have her here, this girl whom he had photographed so many times, changing the perspectives in every direction, this girl who was the same girl as in all those other pictures from the year before, brought into this present which was also his past. She pushed her long black hair back behind her shoulder which was bare save for the strap of the dress and smiled her big smile. He did not know why he was taking so many pictures when she had just arrived. As if each of these moments must be recorded. When what was there came here. The shock of putting two pieces of his life together.