“Light tells stories,” she used to say. “Your job is just to listen.”
The light in this alcove was, is, and will always be pure magic. Morning sun filters through thick glass, casting everything in honey and gold.
It's why Grammie Bea chose this spot for her collection.
Why generations of guests fell asleep on this seat with books in their laps and cocoa going cold on the ledge.
Why I chose this very spot to fall.
God, did I fall hard.
Stop it.
I lower the camera and reach for the subject in front of me—calling it the subject doing nothing to ease the pain—and press my palm flat against the window seat'sworn upholstery.
It’s faded to a soft, tired hush under my palm from decades of use, from children climbing up to watch snow fall, couples stealing kisses, from the girl I used to be spending every free moment weaving him into her history, but still the integrity of the fabric holds true.
My throat tightens.
And this—right here—is the trap of preservation work.
You can’t save a damn thing without knowing what it held. What it took from you. What it gave back.
You can't understand what it meant without remembering.
And when you’ve framed your subject into your history, framed yourself into his, remembering fucking hurts.
The front door bangs open somewhere behind me, followed by Caleb's voice at a volume that should be illegal before noon.
“SHUTTERBUG! Where are you? We need your expertise!”
“In here.” I wince. “And for the love of God, use your indoor voice.”
He appears in the doorway, somehow managing to look both exhausted and vibrating with manic energy.
It's a talent, honestly. The human equivalent of a golden retriever jacked up on their owner’s espresso.
“Indoor voice? What are we, ten?” He drops onto the arm of the nearest couch, nearly toppling it.
“Some of us are.”
“You’re funny, but give it up, you’ll never be as funny as me.”
He winks and grins, something I’m sure he learned from the Morgans. Specifically, Uncle Seth. One day, he’s going to turn that on the one and she’s going to go tits up faster than my shutter speed.
“The TV crew's going to be here in like three hours and we still don't have a shot list for the heritage walk.”
“We have a shot list. I emailed it to all of you this morning.”
“You did?” He pulls out his phone, scrolling. “Oh. You did. Huh. That's very... thorough.”
“That's literally my job.”
“Right, right.” He squints at the screen. “What's a 'transitional B-roll opportunity'?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. He’s going to do this all the way through. Because he’s a fucking sponge for new information who also manages to forget he can Google just like the rest of us.
This is going to be a long day.
