The Frame That Stayed

@vin

Rain ticks against the bar’s window in a slow, uneven rhythm, and the neon sign outside bleeds red across the puddles. Vin slides a worn print across the scarred wood toward you — a rain-slicked street corner, two years gone, and you in the middle of it. He taps one corner of the photo, where a blurred figure stands behind your shoulder. “I’ve been carrying this one a while,” he says. “Tell me I’m wrong about him.”