Not even for a minute.
The photograph stayed on the desk in front of me all night, like it was watching me the same way I was watching it.
Every time I looked away, I felt pulled back to it.
To his face.
To the circle around him.
To the words my father had written like they meant everything.
He knew.
Morning came quietly.
Soft light crept into the room, pushing away the shadows, but it didn’t make anything feel clearer.
If anything, it made the photograph look more real.
More important.
I leaned forward in the chair again, studying it like I had been doing for hours.
The room in the picture looked familiar.
The same type of hall.
The same kind of lighting.
The same kind of people.
Formal.
Polished.
Controlled.
Like the charity event from last night.
I picked the photo u
