The photograph was tucked behind the radiator, a sliver of matte paper pressed into the dust.

The photograph was tucked behind the radiator, a sliver of matte paper pressed into the dust. It was curled at the edges. I pulled it free.

A boy stood in front of a brick wall. He wore a heavy wool coat, too large for his thin frame. His hair was cut straight across the forehead. He wasn't smiling. He looked at something just off-camera with a flat, vacant intensity.

I touched his face on the paper. The surface was grainy. The colors had bled into a bruised spectrum of grey and ochre. Behind him, the brickwork was chipped. A rusted pipe ran along the wall like a vein.

I recognized the coat. It had lived in our hallway for years, smelling of damp wool and old tobacco. I remembered its weight on my shoulders. Now, it was gone, sold or tossed into a bin. The boy in the photo was an anchor to a room that no longer existed.

The radiator hissed nearby, a sudden burst of steam and metallic heat. I held the picture until my thumb went numb. The boy’s eyes were two dark pits in the grain. He was a ghost of a moment, caught in a permanent, silent blink. I put it back. The dust settled over it instantly.