Inside, the air smelled of cedar and old books. Walls were lined with large, sepia‑toned prints: a lone magnolia tree swaying against a stormy sky, a porch swing creaking in the twilight, a child’s laughter frozen in a splash of river water. Each photograph seemed to pulse with a story she didn’t remember taking.

A soft voice called from the back. “You’ve finally come,” said an elderly woman with silver hair, her eyes bright behind round spectacles. “I’m Mae, the keeper of these images.”

Mae led Angi to a locked cabinet. Inside lay a single, unmarked roll of film. “This is the last one,” Mae whispered. “It’s the only image we’ve never developed.”