The photographs weighed heavy in my hands, as my eyes brushed over the pictures I had taken on my travels across the globe. They reminded me of places so magnificent that it was almost too easy to capture their beauty in a single snapshot. There were buildings with so much history in their walls, that they were held together simply by the stories woven between their bricks, and mountains, which looked like great waves that had been preserved by time itself.

As I observed a photo of a Canadian forest that appeared untouched by the rest of the world, I noticed something hidden amongst the branches. There, standing in the space between two distant trees, was a man, facing the direction of my camera. He wore a black raincoat, which draped loosely until it reached his knees, and jeans, which were ripped, but not by design.

I brought the photo closer to my eyes in an attempt to see the figure’s face, but it was concealed by a tree’s branches. I was stunned that I hadn’t seen the man while taking the photo, but decided that it enhanced the image somehow.

I proceeded to turn to the next photograph, smiling slightly at the memory of the serene public garden I had visited while in Japan. And that’s when I saw it. My heart paused in its beating, as my whole body went rigid with shock, and I sat there almost as still as the photograph itself. My eyes had arrived at the pond. In the once transparent ripples, I saw a reflection, like an abstract painting in the moving water. I followed the reflection from it’s head to it’s toe, until the portrait met its creator. There he was. Torn jeans, a flowing raincoat, and a face obscured by a rock sculpture nearby.

How could this be possible? How could he have been in Canada, and now in Japan, at the same time and place as I was? And how hadn’t I noticed him until just now? As my mind whirled, I stared at the person. He looked so strange and secretive, and yet, there was something oddly familiar about him, as if somewhere, I had seen him before, but not just in a photograph. A chill shivered down my skin, as a eerie silence settled around me. My fingers dented the photo, as they shook uncontrollably.

I took a deep, yet quivering, breath, before allowing my eyes to reach the next photo.

My gasp caught in my throat as I tossed the photographs onto the table in haste. I could feel the blood draining out of my face, and I stared in pure fear at my trembling hands, as if still looking at the photo. My lungs filled and emptied in short, quick breaths, as it became more and more difficult to breathe. My eyes darted around the room as I clutched at my chest. It was as if I had seen a ghost. But that’s because I had. For, there, staring at me from behind a graffitied building in a black raincoat and ripped jeans, was my deceased brother.