The day Aira found the photograph, it wasn't raining, but the sky carried the weight of clouds that might cry if no one else did.
She was at the old flea market downtown, the one that smelled like paper and forgotten stories. Her fingers wandered lazily through a crate of vintage books when one opened on its own—spine cracked, pages yellowed, as if it had been waiting.
The photo wasn't even placed properly. It had slipped halfway out from between two pages, almost like it wanted to be seen.
A man. Standing on a foggy hillside, hands in the pockets of a long coat. No smile, no frown—just a stillness in his eyes that felt too alive for a photograph. His gaze didn't feel captured—it felt like it was still searching.
Aira blinked.
Then closed the book.
And walked away.
She didn't buy it. She didn't even remember which stall it came from.
But that night, and the nights after, she found herself remembering the photograph. The way the mist curled around him. The way his presence lingered without a name.
She told herself it was just curiosity. A trick of the mind. Some odd moment her imagination wanted to stretch. She had better things to think about—deadlines, her part-time job, watering her one struggling fern.
But weeks passed. Then months. And that one fleeting glance had somehow taken root.
She didn't know his name.
She didn't know if he was real—if he even existed outside that still frame.
But her heart... her heart was starting to remember him like he had once mattered.