—It had been several days since then.
She preferred to call it that –"then"– as if refusing to name it could somehow lessen its weight. Everything that had happened after that day had blurred together, becoming an indistinct haze of moments she would rather not define. The more she avoided details, the easier it was to keep the memories at bay. It was a fragile defense, but a necessary one. Facing them directly was something she wasn't ready for. Not yet.
Curled up on her bed, she held herself tightly, knees drawn against her chest as though the pressure alone could keep her from falling apart. The blankets had been shoved aside, forgotten in a tangled heap at the edge of the mattress. The only thing close to her was her pillow, clutched in a way that made it seem less like a place to rest and more like a lifeline.
A soft knock against the wooden door broke the fragile silence of her room.
— Mary?
She didn't answer. Her gaze barely shifted, her body remaining completely still, as if ignoring the voice would make the world beyond that door cease to exist. She curled in on herself a little more, pressing her forehead against her knees.
Silence settled again, but her attention was drawn elsewhere. Slowly, her eyes drifted toward the bedside table, where a single photograph lay face down. Her fingers twitched slightly, hesitating. Then, with deliberate slowness, she reached out. Her fingertips brushed against the frame, but she hesitated, hovering just above it. Lifting that picture would mean acknowledging everything it represented, everything she had been trying to suppress.
She exhaled softly, closed her eyes, and, after a long moment, finally turned the frame upright.
— I... I'll leave you alone — said the voice from the other side of the door, now softer, closer—. But I want you to know I left some food for you in the pot. It's your favorite, spaghetti. I know I haven't been much help, but... I just want you to remember that your father and I are here for you, sweetheart.
The words faded, and footsteps retreated down the hallway, leaving her alone once more.
She barely registered what had been said. Her focus remained fixed on the photograph now standing before her, its edges slightly worn, its colors dulled by time.
Three faces smiled back at her.
The girl in the middle –herself, but younger, brighter, untouched by the weight of the present pressing down on her now –grinned with the carefree energy of someone who had yet to learn what real loss felt like. To her right, a blonde girl with braces flashed an awkward yet sincere smile, radiating warmth despite the metallic burden on her teeth. But it was the figure to her left that made her chest tighten the most.
A boy with brown hair and kind, deep-set eyes. His face was ordinary in many ways, yet his smile held a quiet confidence, a fierce determination that had always reminded her of a tiger.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she set the photo back down, placing it face-down once again as if that simple action could bury the emotions rising within her. Her hand drifted toward another object –the camera resting nearby–. Unlike the photo, she didn't hesitate to pick it up. The weight of it in her grasp was familiar, grounding.
She turned it on, her fingers moving instinctively as she scrolled through the images stored inside. Each picture was a frozen moment, a piece of time she had captured in an attempt to preserve something fleeting.
Then, a voice, unspoken, yet vivid in her memory.
— "One day, I'll be a great scientist... or maybe a great photographer. Who knows? But Uncle Ben always says that no matter what I choose, if I put in the effort, I'll do it well. And I believe him."
A faint, fleeting smile touched her lips. The camera hadn't even been hers to begin with. It had belonged to someone else, someone who was no longer here. And yet, in every click of the shutter, in every captured image, a part of him remained.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the words carried weight.
— I'm not as smart as you, but the least I can do in your name is become a great photographer. I promise you that, Pete.
The promise settled in her chest, solid and unshakable. Slowly, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold floor. For the first time in days, she stood up.
Her fingers curled around the camera strap as she walked toward the door, pausing only briefly before grasping the handle.
—Come on, Red— she murmured to herself as she stepped into the hallway, the dim light from the outside world washing over her—. There's an entire world outside, waiting to be photographed by you.
She had no clear plan, no definite direction. The weight of the past still clung to her, and the ache in her chest wasn't something that would fade overnight. But she would move forward. For herself, and for the dreams of the boy who was no longer beside her.
She had no way of knowing it, but her path was still intertwined with the one she had lost. The story wasn't over, not yet. But for now, she would take it one step at a time, camera in hand, facing the world one photograph at a time.