He had seen much, in his time. He had seen a million sunsets, a thousand ancient oaks, a hundred pretty women and so much more. And, of course, he had captured each on film.
He liked boats. He always had: loved the slight rock of one in the water, loved the glint of the sea and the scent in the air. When he felt homesick - and those times were truly rare - it was that scent he longed for most of all. The smell of salt and sea hanging in the air.
He loved the moon. He waited for the best nights, the nights when the moon was full and the night was clear, or better yet when the moon was half hidden in cloud, shrouded in the shadow as though it were some mystical shawl.
He loved it when flocks of birds or bats moved across the sky, when they became shadowed shapes against the bright colours caused by a setting sun. He loved it when they settled together to drink or in a line on a tree branch, because the element of togetherness was so very clear in the pictures he took.
He adored the magic of reflections on glinting waters - lakes or ponds. There were few things more beautiful than peach coloured clouds shown in the hazy waters of a clear, blue lake.
Piers and lighthouses were wonderful too - but he'd never liked photographs that bustled with people. No, no, he preferred to catch the magic of one or two, or none at all, for humans were not the most beautiful thing and could never, of course, compare to the beauty of a half sunken ship at twilight.
His film was limited. He always knew that, as he traveled. He knew that there was so much film he carried, and with every photograph, glorious and ever lovely though it might have been, his supply dwindled. As his time left grew shorter, he took more to photos of people.
A girl with an umbrella. A magical man with an accordion and a worn-out banjo. Schoolchildren laughing on a bridge.
His last photo, the final use of that magical film, was simple. He'd started the trek home when he'd realised all of a sudden that he had one shot left. He walked up a hill, through the woody area he'd played in as a young child - how far away those days seemed, those days before his camera and his limited stock of film.
He'd known the shot as he'd stopped for breath on a step. He could see one of the neighbourhood strayed settled on a rest at the top of the hill, could see the moss on the oak tree that had once had a tyre swinging from its boughs. The clouds were beautiful, the air tingling with that natural magic, and he knew.
He raised the camera to his eye and took his final photo.
With that, he faded in the light, leaving behind only an old satchel filled with Polaroid photos and a camera that could never work again.