I stumble through the narrow alleyway, clutching the glass of wine in my hand like an anchor, as though it might hold me to this world, to this fleeting moment where I am still Joseph Desaulniers—still alive, still here. The red wine sloshes in the glass, spilling over the rim with a careless splash. It stains my pale fingers, the crimson liquid blending with the forgotten remnants of last night’s indulgence. I should feel something—anything—but the dull, endless ache in my chest drowns out everything else.

The street is quiet. Too quiet. I take another drink, the sharp bite of the wine cutting through the haze that clouds my mind. My body feels heavy, my movements sluggish. The night air wraps around me like a cold shroud, and yet I can’t bring myself to care. My thoughts, tangled as they are, linger only on one thing.

Her.

She’s out there somewhere. I know it. I feel it. Somewhere, beyond this fog, beyond the wine, beyond the ache in my chest. She is still real—still alive, perhaps.

But the wine isn’t enough. I need more. I need to see her again. To capture her.

A strange impulse grips me as I stagger into the empty street. The world around me sways, blurs into a wash of shadows and dim light. My vision is tainted by the haze of drunkenness, but it doesn’t matter. I could find her in the dark—if I could just see her once more.

My hand clenches the camera strap at my side, the cold leather comforting against my palm. I could take her picture. Yes, that’s what I need. To hold her in a frame, in a moment of time. To possess her once again—her beauty, her essence, her very soul, captured and stored. It’s all I have left of her.

But then, as my steps falter and my gaze drifts through the dimly lit alley, I freeze.

There, standing by the farthest lamppost, is a figure. Her hair, dark and flowing, gleams under the faint light. I can’t make out her features, but I know. I know it’s her.

My breath catches in my throat, and I stagger forward, heart pounding. Every fiber of my being wants to pull out the camera, snap a shot, trap her within the frame, keep her in my world, away from time, away from everything else.

But I stop.

For a moment, my hand trembles, hovering above the camera. There’s something about her presence—something in the way she stands, so still, so calm—that makes me pause. A sense of guilt rises in my chest. I’ve done this before. I’ve taken pictures of her before, when I was too selfish, too consumed by my own desires. I remember the way I used to capture her—each photograph a stolen piece of her, a glimpse of her that I could keep forever. But it was never enough. It never filled the emptiness.

And now, I’m not sure it will.

What is the point of keeping her captured in the cold, sterile embrace of film when she’s right here? In front of me? When her soul isn’t in the frame but in the space between us?

I lower my hand. The camera feels heavier in my grasp now, like a burden I can no longer bear. The image of her in my mind, that image I’ve carried for so long, feels suddenly wrong, like an illusion that has begun to crack under the weight of years.

I take another step toward her, my eyes not leaving her silhouette. There’s a trembling uncertainty in me now, a hesitation I’ve never allowed myself to feel before. I want to reach out to her. I want to apologize for everything—the selfishness, the obsession, the way I took her from the world and locked her away in photographs that were never enough.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, I find myself searching for comfort in her presence—something I thought I had lost long ago.

The night air bites at my skin, but I don’t feel cold anymore. There is warmth between us, though it is strange and unfamiliar, like I’m walking toward her through the remnants of a dream. I keep my eyes fixed on her, each step more uncertain than the last.

She doesn’t move. Her posture remains the same, unchanging, as if waiting for me to find my way to her.

And for the first time in years, I wonder if it’s me who’s been lost all along.