写真 | The Memories of Fuka

Looking back at the first posts, everything feels distant and strangely simple.

At the time, there was no clear direction.
No real story.
Just fragments — streets, lights, quiet rooms, passing thoughts.

Fuka was still undefined, almost like a shadow moving through Tokyo without knowing where to stop.

The images were more generic, the atmosphere uncertain, and yet… something was already there.
A certain silence.
A certain way of observing small details.

Maybe every story begins like this: without structure, without answers, with only a vague feeling that something important is waiting somewhere ahead.

Looking at those early posts now feels a little embarrassing, but also strangely comforting.
They remind me that even unfinished things can carry sincerity.

And perhaps that is where Fuka truly started.