Even if the tracks are broken, what did not disappear

"I was looking for a photo of my father at work, and I finally found it."

An email arrived.

The sender was the daughter of Haru-san, one of the most veteran drivers on the Tanigumi Line.

It has been fifteen years since Haru-san passed away.

The smell of oil suddenly came back to me.

The roaring sound of the motor.
The smell of oil soaked into the wooden floorboards and the scent of greenery coming in through the open windows.

Right behind the driver's seat. The scenery I watched while being swayed in the red train car, all by myself.

With the high-pitched screech of the wheels as a signal, the train came to a stop.

A platform with no one in sight.
That terminal station is not listed on any timetable.

I could always tell when Haru-san was driving the "Akaden" (Red Train), even when I had my camera pointed at it along the line.

That was because there was always a passenger standing right behind the driver's seat in the empty train car.

When I spotted him, I would lower my camera and head toward the station.

After finishing his inspection, Haru-san turned around and our eyes met.

"Glad you could make it."

It began with transferring between Meitetsu streetcars, seeing a station filled with a blizzard of cherry blossoms from a crowded window.

Eventually, as I chased the train cars running through the mountain villages, my lens naturally turned toward the life that existed there.

It was during such times that I met Haru-san.

"You've come again."

Every time I heard those words, the number of times I visited increased.

It was nearing ten years since I had seen that blizzard of cherry blossoms. Articles reporting on the deficit of the Tanigumi Line began to catch my eye.

Before I knew it, permission for an interview had been granted to an inexperienced person like me.

I accompanied the station staff, inspectors, and track maintenance crews, walking the sites.

I also saw off Haru-san's 'Akaden' (red train) more times than I can count.

We didn't exchange many words, but he would sometimes drop by the venue of my photo exhibition.

He was the kind of person who would smile slightly, raise his right hand a little, say "I was off today," and then head home.

I spotted the Akaden driven by Haru-san along the line and headed to Tanigumi Station as usual.

I waited for him to finish his preparations and called out to him.
"Glad you came," he replied with a single phrase.

Hearing that he would return on the next train, I saw him off from the platform.

The station building had been rebuilt.
Even so, the lady was still at the kiosk, just as she had been in the past.

Beside her, the wooden box filled with hard-ticket train passes was still there.

I took an ice cream from the freezer and sat down on a small chair.

"I like the Tanigumi Line in the snow the best."

The lady said that, her eyes narrowing with a smile.

I headed to the platform to wait for Haru-san.

The train only comes once an hour, but during the day, you almost never meet anyone on this platform.

Clang, clang, clang.
The sound of the crossing gate and the metallic noise could be heard in the distance.

Surrounded by trees, the train climbed the slope, its red body shaking in small increments.


Rattle, rattle, rattle.
The doors opened, and while exchanging greetings, one passenger got off.


I boarded from the rear door and called out to Haru-san as he walked through the car.

"Would you mind if I took a picture of your hands?"

"Like this?"

I pointed my lens at the hands he held out.

I burned those "working hands" that had gripped the handle for so many years onto the film.

I sit on the platform bench with Haru-san, who has finished switching the driver's seat and set down the handle.

The sound of cicadas is lively.

What are you doing after this today?
I'm heading into the city.

For a rare moment, he frowned and muttered.

Coming from the city to here is especially tough in the winter.

I gazed at the empty Akaden train.

He checks his watch and stands up. Seeing that, I board first and wait in a seat.

This was my last conversation with Haru-san—the only time I can remember seeing his true self.

The station yard, with its closure imminent, was busier than usual.

In the midst of that commotion, I was stopped by the track maintenance team leader.

Could you take a photo of everyone for the last time?

I also got to know a young couple in front of the station.

We talked about taking the last train from Tanigumi and returning on the turnaround train to Tanigumi.

The last train to Tanigumi will return as a deadhead, so no one will be on it, right? We can ride it with the kids without worrying.

The husband in front of the station laughed as he said that.

The train car at night as the closure approached. I met the local people many times.


The final day.
I hardly held up my camera.

I wonder what will happen starting tomorrow.
I watched several trains come and go with the station lady on the bustling platform.

Before I knew it, it was night, and amidst the many people watching, I felt like, 'Tomorrow, it will come running just as usual.'
With that feeling, I saw off the end.

The next day.
The sound that should have been echoing with a clatter could not be heard.

When I later learned of Haru-san's passing, I tried to contact him once. However, that call did not go through.

Since then, with the words I wanted to convey lost, only time has passed.

The red train car, which was supposed to be dismantled, was protected by the shop owners in front of the station who said, "At least we want to keep it as a station," and it returned to this land once again.

Although ticket sales have ceased, the lady is still there at the shop as always.

Ten years since the closure.
A revised edition of the Tanigumi Line photo book was released.
I included more of Haru-san's photos.

A few years later.
That book caught the eye of his daughter's husband by chance at a bookstore in Osaka.

His daughter sent me an email using the author's name as a lead.

"I was looking for photos of my father at work, and I finally found you."

When many seasons had passed, another letter arrived.

"For my son's first birthday, I would like you to take a commemorative photo with my father's train."

The location for the shoot was immediately decided as Tanigumi.


I asked the woman in front of the station if there was anyone who knew Haru-san.

The day of the appointment. It had been exactly twenty years since the closure.

First thing in the morning. Heading toward Tanigumi.

A road I was used to traveling.
Passing through Kurono Station, which had become a park, I drove along the Tanigumi Line.

The surrounding scenery has hardly changed.

The daughter's family arrived.
I look into the son's eyes.
They were the same eyes as Haru-san's, whom I saw in the driver's seat.

I kept the lens pointed at them.

Back then, I couldn't get through on the phone, and I couldn't even put my hands together in prayer for a long time. When I apologized, I realized that the loss of contact had just been a misunderstanding.

"There are many photos of the Akaden online, so I thought I would find them right away. But there wasn't a single photo of my father."

I gently gazed at the face of the son being held.

"When I was a student, I used to see him driving in Yanagase. I wish I had at least ridden it once."

Finding the right time, I guided her to the kiosk where the ladies were waiting.

"I know that driver well. He was a good man."

At the lady's words, the daughter gave a small nod.

"Thinking back now, his name would come up at home too. He'd say things like 'He came by today' or 'I went to see the exhibit,' many times."

The daughter had heard the name from Haru-san, but at the time, she had just thought of him as someone from her father's workplace.

After handing the photo to the daughter, some time passed, and finally, the opportunity to pay her respects arrived.

Her mother welcomed us with a smile.

How much Haru-san was adored by his colleagues, and how he had been a pillar of support for someone. I listened to the stories as if tracing his outline, and then I pressed my hands together in prayer.

On the way back, I drove through the city of Gifu.

I came out onto the road where the streetcars, which no longer exist, used to run.

I stopped at a traffic light. At that moment, Haru-san came to mind.

I looked at my own hands gripping the steering wheel. The scent of the Aka-den from the day I photographed his hands suddenly came back to me.

"Glad you could make it." That was all he said.

I thought I had been pushed forward by those hands all along.

I pulled the car over to the shoulder and couldn't move for a while.

"I'd like you to take our family photo for my birthday again this year."

Exactly one year later.
I received another email from the daughter.

The following year, I became conscious of matching the angle so that I could capture it in the same composition.

And the year after that.
The son stood on his own two feet for the photo.

That season has come around again this year.

"Since we're at it, why don't you have the lady and her husband join in the commemorative photo too?"

I visited the couple in front of the station and shared the plan.

The wife smiled and gave me a push.

On the day of the fifth-year shoot.
Rain was dampening the station.

"It's amazing how you're always available every year!"

We exchanged greetings just as we always did, and I simply focused on capturing the time right in front of me.

The ladies had gathered at the station for me.

I took one shot first to capture the whole scene.

I approached the ladies lined up and repositioned my camera.

“If you get that close, my wrinkles will show. Oh, stop it.”

“We’re going to keep taking photos together until this child turns twenty, so what are you worried about now?”

“By that time, I’ll already be in the afterlife.”

As the lady laughed, the woman from in front of the station next to her said smoothly.

“She’s at the age where she’ll be honored by the town soon, isn’t she? Right?”

I leaned forward instinctively.

“Then, let’s make our first goal to take a picture holding the certificate of commendation. And then, twenty years old!”

The lady raised her voice while laughing.

“I’ll have to climb out of my coffin for that!”

I pressed the shutter as if to chase after their lively banter.

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