He stared at the picture, at me, then back at the picture.
His thumb drifted along the worn edge of the frame as if he were trying to convince himself it was real.
Finally, he spoke.
“Where did you get this?”
The question hit me strangely.
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“This photograph.”
I walked closer and immediately understood which one he meant. The frame contained a picture of me. Twenty-three years old, laughing at something outside the camera’s view, with the wind pushing my hair across my face.
It had always been one of my favorite photographs because it was one of the few pictures where I looked genuinely happy.
“What about it?”
Miles looked like he was struggling to process something. “My dad has this.”
I smiled politely. “A copy?”
He shook his head. “No.” The word landed strangely. “Not a copy.”
Now my stomach dropped because of the way he said it. Not similar. Not another picture from the same day.
