INDY
The photographs were laid out carefully on the wooden table in front of me, their corners held down by smooth river stones so they would not fly from the chilly winds. The afternoon light filtered through the open window, illuminating the face of a woman I had never truly known.
At first, I did not understand what felt so unsettling. Then it struck me.
It was like looking at myself.
Not the me who was a part of this world and was meant to ruin the main love story.
There was ink smudged faintly on her fingers in one photograph, and in another, she was holding a bundle of papers to her chest as though they were sacred.
For a dizzying moment, it felt as though I were staring at myself before I had ever been placed inside this story.
I reached out and touched the edge of the ne
