I knew that camera.
For forty years, I had told people I lost it.
I had repeated that story so many times that even I had almost stopped questioning it.
Seeing the camera again made that old explanation suddenly feel fragile.
“Where did you get this?”
Emma stepped into the garage behind me.
“I found it at a flea market.”
I stared at her.
“The man selling it was getting rid of old things after retirement,” she continued. “I remembered you talking about the camera you lost.”
“You bought it?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
Emma hesitated.
“He told me there was undeveloped film inside.”
My stomach tightened.
“So you developed it.”
She nodded.
“I thought you’d want to see the photographs.”
I looked at the wall.
“You developed film from my old camera, printed the pictures, and displayed them without asking me?”
Emma’s smile disappeared.
“You always sounded sad when you talked about losing it.”
