Two years.
Two years since a photograph changed everything.
She sank into her desk chair and opened her portfolio folder. It wasn’t the folder with the architectural work that paid her bills and allowed her to claim she was still a working photographer. The other folder. The one buried three levels deep in a directory labeled ARCHIVE_OLD.
The thumbnails loaded slowly. Faces she hadn’t seen in years. A refugee camp in Greece. Hurricane aftermath in Puerto Rico. The face of a woman in Louisiana who’d just learned her son survived a factory explosion. Image after image of human beings caught in their most raw and desperate moments, their pain transformed into art that won awards, sold prints, and launched careers.
Her career.
She’d been good at this. Better than good. She’d had an instinct for finding the frame that contained truth. Editors called her relentless, and subjects called her invisible. She moved through crisis zones like a ghost, present and absent simultaneously, capturing images that made audiences weep from the safety of their breakfast tables.
She scrolled past the thumbnails without clicking on any of them. Her finger hesitated over a subfolder labeled COASTAL STORM.
Don’t.
She double-clicked anyway.
She stared at the image. The air in the cottage suddenly felt too thin, too hot. She closed her eyes, trying to force the memories away. Then she opened them, closed the folder, and snapped the laptop closed.
She pushed back from her desk. Two years of architectural photography. Two years of buildings, bridges, and interiors that couldn’t look at her with reproach. Two years of being good at something that required no courage and cost her nothing.
She was safe here. The lighthouse never changed. The cottages never accused her. She could photograph the same angles in the same light until she was eighty years old and never have to feel the enormity of another person’s worst moment in her viewfinder.
She startled at the sound of a knock on her door.
Through the window, she could see Clint standing on her small porch, thermos still in hand. He must have finished whatever critical sunrise maintenance had required his attention. His expression held its usual blend of mild irritation and forced patience.
She considered not answering. But he’d seen her come in, and Clint was nothing if not persistent when he decided someone needed something. Usually something they hadn’t asked for.
She opened the door halfway. “Shed crisis resolved?”
“Shed’s fine.” He looked past her into the cottage, his gaze cataloging the equipment cases and general disarray. “Aunt Winnie wanted me to tell you something.”
“Winnie has my number.”
“She’s old-fashioned.” He shrugged. “Also, she knew there was a good chance you wouldn’t answer.”
Fair point. She leaned against the doorframe. “What does Winnie want?”
“Festival committee meeting tonight.”
“We just had the Harbor Festival.”
Clint shook his head slowly. “Yes, well, we have a festival for just about everything here in Starlight Shores. They need someone to document the planning process for the tourism board.”
“I’m not an events photographer.”
“Winnie figured you wouldn’t mind helping her out.”
She kept her expression neutral. “I do architectural work.”
“So take pictures of the festival architecture.”
“There is no festival architecture. It’s tents, booths, and people.”
He shifted his weight. “Winnie’s asking. I’m just the messenger.”
“Then message her back that I’m not available.”
