CHAPTER 2 — THE PHOTOGRAPH
1269 Words
I waited until Lena disappeared through the station doors before looking at the photograph again.
The rain had softened to a drizzle. Somewhere beyond the waiting room, a train moved slowly along the tracks, its wheels making a sound like someone dragging a chair across a wooden floor.
I turned the photograph toward the lamp.
The damaged section was still there, but now I could see more clearly what had been hidden beneath the smoke.
The man stood beside the railway bridge, wearing a dark coat and a hat that looked too large for his head. His face was partly obscured by a white scratch across the paper.
I took my magnifying glass and leaned closer.
Then I stopped breathing.
The man had my face.
Not a resemblance. Not the kind of similarity that makes you wonder whether two people might be related.
My face.
The same narrow jaw. The same crooked nose. The same small scar above my left eyebrow.
Even the way he stood was familiar. One hand in his pocket. The other holding a camera.
I looked at the date stamped on the back.
OCTOBER 17, 1912.
I read it twice.
Then I turned the photograph over again.
The woman beside him was Lena.
She was wearing a pale dress and a hat decorated with a small dark ribbon. Her hair was pinned beneath it, but there was no mistaking her face.
She looked exactly as she had looked an hour earlier.
I sat back in my chair.
The station clock still showed 4:17.
I took out my phone and searched the date.
A railway bridge collapse. October 17, 1912. Six people dead.
The photograph had been taken before the accident.
I stared at the man.
Elias.
That was the name Lena had whispered.
I searched the name too.
ELIAS HART — PHOTOGRAPHER.
The article was short. A local newspaper had published it decades ago, when the station had still been in use.
Elias Hart, twenty-six, had been working near the bridge when the structure collapsed. Witnesses said he had tried to save a woman who had fallen onto the tracks.
The article did not name the woman.
I looked at the photograph again.
Lena stood beside him.
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them, she was standing across the room.
I nearly dropped the photograph.
“You came back,” she said.
“You knew I would.”
She looked at the picture in my hand.
Her expression changed.
“Where did you find that?”
“On my desk.”
She took a step closer.
I turned the photograph toward her.
The color drained from her face.
For a moment, she looked as if she had been struck.
“That was the first time I saw you,” she whispered.
I stared at her.
“You were there?”
She nodded.
“In 1912?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the man in the photograph.
“Who is he?”
Lena did not answer.
“Who is he, Lena?”
She looked away.
I stood.
“Tell me the truth.”
Her eyes filled with something I could not understand.
“I can’t.”
“You know my name. You know my childhood. You know things I’ve never told anyone. And now I find a photograph of you standing beside a man who looks exactly like me.”
She said nothing.
“Is that why you came here?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I knew you would find it.”
The words made my stomach tighten.
I looked at the photograph again.
“Is that me?”
Lena closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
The station seemed to grow quieter.
I could hear the rain tapping against the windows.
“What was his name?”
“Elias.”
“And what happened to him?”
She looked at me.
“You already know.”
I shook my head.
“No. I don’t.”
She looked toward the bridge.
Then she said, “You died.”
I laughed once, without meaning to.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Then explain it.”
She stepped back.
“I can’t do this here.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Lena.”
She stopped.
I held up the photograph.
“You’re not leaving until you tell me why you’re in this.”
She looked at the picture for a long time.
Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
And walked away.
I followed her.
Not because I believed her.
Because I didn’t.
We left the station and crossed the street. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement shining beneath the streetlights.
Lena walked quickly.
I caught up with her outside a small café.
“You’re following me,” she said.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Then stop walking.”
She stopped.
For a moment, we stood beneath the awning, listening to the rain dripping from the roof.
“Tell me one thing,” I said. “Why do you look exactly the same?”
Lena looked at me.
“Because I haven’t changed.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes.”
I stared at her.
She looked tired.
Not frightened. Not mysterious.
Just tired.
“Come inside,” she said.
The café was nearly empty. A woman behind the counter was wiping down the tables. A radio played softly near the kitchen.
Lena sat by the window.
I sat across from her.
The woman behind the counter looked at Lena.
“Your usual?”
Lena nodded.
Then she looked at me.
“And his.”
I frowned.
“What?”
The woman smiled.
“Coffee with cinnamon. No sugar.”
I stared at Lena.
“How did you know?”
She looked down at the table.
“You always order it.”
“I’ve never been here.”
She didn’t answer.
The woman brought two cups.
I took a sip.
It was exactly how I liked it.
I set the cup down.
“Lena.”
She looked at me.
“Who was Elias?”
She took a breath.
Then she said, “You.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m Noah.”
“I know.”
“I’ve never been Elias.”
Lena looked at the photograph in my hand.
“You were.”
I looked at the image again.
The man beside her had my face.
The same face.
The same eyes.
The same scar.
I wanted to ask her what kind of trick this was.
But I couldn’t find the words.
Lena reached across the table.
I pulled my hand away.
She stopped.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” she said.
“Then tell me the truth.”
She looked out the window.
“I have been trying to tell you.”
“No. You’ve been giving me pieces.”
“Because the whole truth is dangerous.”
I almost laughed.
“Dangerous?”
She nodded.
“You think I’m joking?”
“No.”
She looked at me.
And for the first time, I believed that she was afraid.
“Then tell me what happens on October 17.”
Lena’s eyes filled with tears.
She looked down at the photograph.
Then she whispered:
“You died before you could finish it.”
I looked at the coffee.
The steam was still rising.
I had not touched it again.
And suddenly, I could not remember what I had been about to say.
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