The rest of the pictures were rubbish, of the slice-of-life variety, but one called Valley of Flowers held his attention. It was in black and white (as they all were), and captured a stream in rapid foam-flecked flow over stones while a smoky mist suffused the air, caressing the water surface and the rocks' contours. To the right was the profile of a hill, foliage-wreathed, a rough path cut into it at the edge. A man and his donkey could be seen from the back walking up the path towards a bend.
There was an almost transformative element in the picture. As one's eyes moved from left to right, from the mist shrouded stream to the shrubby hill and path, the texture of the image seemed to shift from charcoal drawing to actual photograph, with infinitesimal gradients in between. His mind could not imagine the scene being ever in color, not even in the real life it was taken from. He wondered, when man and animal reached the bend, what would happen?