The small sitting room was bathed in the soft glow of late morning, faint and golden, like embers stubbornly clinging to life. That light revealed every detail: the worn scratches etched into the tabletop, the fine motes of dust drifting in lazy spirals, and the hunched figure of a man perched on a low wooden chair.
His thin but nimble fingers cradled an old, black-enameled camera. Delicate engravings adorned its surface, so subtle they only became legible when sunlight struck at just the right angle. The clear glass lens gleamed coldly, mirroring the world upside-down. A row of tiny metal buttons lined its side, their surfaces gleaming from decades of caresses, like aged silver coins buffed smooth by time.
Rafak's crown was nearly bald, but the silvery strands at his temples had been left long, tied back into a slender ponytail. Round spectacles perched on his nose, framing eyes that gleamed with an obsession born of a life held hostage by lifeless glass and steel.
From the kitchen came the sharp crack of eggs hitting the hot pan—pssshh!—echoing off the old brick walls like a secret bursting into the open. Clara moved with quiet grace, her slim frame akin to a bamboo stalk bent but unbroken in the wind. She cracked eggs with practiced ease; golden yolks mingled with melting butter, filling the air with a warm, savory scent, the very essence of "home," even if it never quite felt like hers.
A fleeting shadow crossed her face, just a flicker of unease before she shook it off. Her hand trembled slightly as she sprinkled salt, but she forced herself steady. With a gentle shake of her spatula, she let the omelet bubble into a perfect foil of gold, its edges kissed with deep caramel brown, almost charred beneath its soft surface.
Clara set the omelete to the plate, her eyes locking onto Rafak's hunched back. She held her breath, then spoke in a voice so soft it might have been a whisper on the wind, "Not hungry yet? I made an omelet…."
Rafak slid the camera into his lap, his fingers lingering on its buttons as if fearful someone might snatch it away. Clara lowered her gaze for a moment, an abstract thought crashing through her mind: what would it feel like if that camera turned its gaze on her, instead of the world beyond? But all she received in reply was the faintest reflection of her own face, ghostlike, in the camera's cold lens.
The sight of her own fractured image staring back made her suddenly conscious of herself. Her long chestnut hair had tumbled down one side of her face, pinned back carelessly with a tiny silver clip. Her lips pursed in something close to a pout, but she surrendered to the moment, simply setting the plate before him and retreating.
Only when the rich aroma of cooked eggs truly flooded the room did Rafak finally exhale a long, weary breath. Slowly, he set his camera on the small table and reached for a fork. A tender wedge of golden omelet waited, crowned with a single sprig of fresh parsley.
But before the fork could reach his lips, his eyes caught on an old photograph hanging on the wall. Its edges had yellowed and grown brittle, devoured by the relentless march of time.
Clara drew closer, her voice tentative yet gentle. "Come on, eat first. You haven't stopped fiddling with that camera all night."
"Ah..." Rafak's sigh was flat, emotionless. "You know I can't rest easy when my camera's still broken."
A few days ago, a pack of children had kicked their ball toward the house. The window shattered, the camera fell. Nearly destroyed. To anyone else, it was just an expensive, finicky gadget. But to Rafak, a humble bread seller in Tytoal-ba, that camera was a symbol of something higher than love, deeper than faith. The only proof he'd ever transcended the ordinary.
Clara let out a soft sigh. "But... even now, you're drowning too deep in it." She lowered her gaze, adding as if speaking just to keep herself heard. "You know, someone from my workplace has gone missing. Three days now. Everyone's worried sick."
"...Hmm." A short, colorless grunt.
"Even three blocks from here. People are starting to get scared."
"...Hmm."
Clara held her breath, her chest feeling as though invisible fingers had closed around it. Rafak's clipped responses cut through her like slow, deliberate wounds. Silence thickened between them like fog. She bowed her head, her fingers fumbling awkwardly as she untied the worn apron from her waist, her movements unsteady, lacking their usual confidence.
Her gaze wandered aimlessly, first to the tips of her shoes, then stealing fleeting glances at Rafak's back, searching for some crack of empathy that never came. Clutching the strap of her purse, she bit her lower lip, swallowing down the bitter taste of disappointment. Her steps were slow as she moved away from the table.
"I should get going. Maybe tomorrow we'll catch our morning routine."
Clara turned toward the door. Just then, his voice reached her again, calm, but enough to stop her in her tracks.
"Clara."
Clara turned, and the camera's flash erupted in a brilliant burst. Click. Her portrait was stolen in that unguarded instant, surprise painted across her features like spilled watercolor.
"Oh? It's working again?" she exclaimed, relief and the ghost of a smile dancing across her face.
Rafak nodded curtly. "Yes."
Clara's smile bloomed genuine and tender. That small ritual, him capturing her before she left for work, had breathed back to life. Something so simple, yet it made her feel... seen. She bid him farewell, closing the door with deliberate softness behind her.
Rafak waited for the photograph to emerge. He shook the Polaroid with reverent care until Clara's image materialized like a spirit summoned from the void. A gentle smile graced the white square... but not his face. His expression remained stone-cold. Without a tremor of joy.
He rose, walked to the door, and flipped the sign from "OPEN" to "CLOSED." Then he moved to the bookshelf, sliding it aside with practiced ease to reveal a hidden drawer. The drawer opened to unveil a treasure trove of photographs.
A woman with a beauty mark on her cheek. A male neighbor in a blue shirt. Row upon row of other portraits, all stacked with meticulous precision, like a curator's most prized collection. He placed Clara's photo on top, sealing the drawer with the care of someone preserving a prayer.
Silence devoured the room once more.
The quiet reclaimed its dominion, leaching color from the stone walls and dim lamplight, leaving behind only the faint perfume of aged camera equipment and memories rotting in the shadows. Within that suffocating stillness, an undeniable truth floated to the surface.
Rafak, beneath all his layers, had never truly loved the people around him. His affection was etched upon one thing alone, something more honest, more eternal than the fleeting warmth of human souls.
He loved his camera.
Not Clara. Not her smile. Not the pulsing life beyond his window.
Only his camera.