The rain had turned into a mist by the time they arrived at the studio. The building sat at the end of a narrow side street, its brick walls darkened from years of moisture. A faded sign above the door read H. Seol-ah Photography, with the paint peeling like old wallpaper.
Eli took a small key from his coat pocket.
"You've had this all along?" she asked.
"I didn't think you were ready to come back."
"And now?" His gaze met hers. "Now I'm not sure I am."
The key turned with a hesitant click, and the door opened to darkness. The air smelled of dust and stale chemicals, a scent she recognized for reasons she couldn't explain. Eli stepped in first and flipped a switch. Weak yellow light filled the room, revealing a narrow space cluttered with tripods, boxes of negatives, and a long table covered with photo paper.
At the far end was the door to the darkroom.
Her breath caught. It was shut, a heavy padlock securing it.
"Why would I lock it from the outside?" she murmured. Eli didn't respond. He crossed the room and pulled a small set of lock picks from his coat.
She stared. "Since when do coffee shop owners carry those?"
He glanced back at her. "Since they started keeping promises."
The lock clicked open, the sound too loud in the silence. He pushed the door, and a sharp, familiar smell of developer and fixer drifted out.
Inside, the darkroom looked just as she remembered — one red bulb hanging from the ceiling, trays stacked neatly, and photos clipped along the drying lines.
She stepped in, her fingertips brushing against the prints. They were all of people she didn't know. Streets she couldn't identify. And then—
Her hand froze on the last print.
It showed her and Eli, standing on the café's back steps. But something about the way they were looking at each other — too close, too intimate — made her chest ache.
On the back, in faint graphite, it said: He's not who you think he is. Her fingers tightened on the print. "Eli," she said softly, "what aren't you telling me?"