THE LAST PHOTOGRAPH

She didn’t chase it. She just stood there, squinting for the past.

It had been taken so long ago, she couldn’t remember when.

A small photograph. Framed in silver. Hidden behind other memories on the mantel.

Eventually, she took it out. Folded it into quarters. Tucked it into her wallet.

She rarely looked at it. But she never forgot it was there.

Life went on. Seasons shifted. Springs bloomed, autumns stiffened. Still, the image stayed sharp: him, smiling, tilted head. Her, nervous—except with him. He made her calm. Not happy. But calm.

That day, wandering through the city, she looked up.

The bench.

It was the same place. But everything else was gone.

The tree. The lamppost. The building. All replaced or erased.

She closed her eyes. Tight. Opened one. Nothing changed.

She shut them again. Unfolded the photograph.

Held it out in front of her. Squinted.

For a moment, calm returned.

She stood, still as memory, thumb and finger pinched around the corners of her past.

Then—wind.

A gust lifted the paper. High. Higher. Into the cloudy sky like it had wings.

She didn’t chase it.

She couldn’t replicate the photo.

She closed her eyes.

Tried to see it.

Opened them.

And wished she hadn’t.