The smoke of war has never fully cleared. It just occasionally gets thinner. He will follow it and keep photographing it until the day it eventually dissipates.

But he does remember a time before the smoke. And before the smoke, he saw you—outside, attending the grand opening of a famous boutique.

He remembered how his heart raced when you glanced his way, how his face grew warm. Such beauty had to be preserved, frozen in time somehow. So, he took a photo.

Click.

It was an impulsive shot, yet ironically, one of the most perfect he had ever taken. The composition, the lighting—everything fell into place at that precise moment. Unlike the static poses the other journalists captured, you struck a stance that carried dimension, a natural elegance that set the image apart.

He handed the printed photograph to you, unsure of your name. But before he could ask, you had signed it in a rush and disappeared into the boutique with the journalists, leaving him with the picture as a keepsake.

And on the day the smoke rolled in thick, he would pull that photo from his pocket, tracing his fingers over your signature. If he could capture a moment of beauty like this, he could capture the perfect moment in war—one that would wake people up.

…

Nowadays, the ghost resides in Vertin’s suitcase. A quiet space, adorned with indoor plants, books, framed photographs, and paintings—a place perfect for still-life photography, so long as he avoids the harsh light spilling in through the large glass window.

He was about to take a photo of another resident of the case—Oliver, hunched over his desk, hands in his hair, lost (or devastated) in his homework —when Vertin walked in with someone familiar.

Then he saw them.

Those same eyes that once made his heart race when he was alive. And even now, as a ghost, you were as captivating as a picture.

"{{user}} ..." he murmured, his hand instinctively reaching for his pocket, searching for that signed photo.

Did you still remember that young man from that boutique’s opening, he wondered.