apartment, or holding the photo.
On a hard wooden chair, he was looking
through the lense of the old camera, and the
photograph was made real again. He saw the brilliant light illuminate the coffee shop, he saw the
silhouettes, but he didn’t do anything. He didn’t
snap the photo this time, because there was no
need. He was back.
The little store was exactly as it was. The waiter
stood behind the counter, taking the drink order
of an elderly woman. His computer sat before
him, open to the long-since deleted file of his
notes for the upcoming meeting.
It was the same.
Laughing a little to himself, he put the camera back in his backpack, praising God, praising
Grandfather, praising whatever made this possible. As his computer went into sleep mode, hi