Asha found the old album in a forgotten corner of the attic, tucked beneath yellowed newspapers and brittle postcards. It smelled of dust and time.
She flipped through the pages, nostalgia curling around her like a warm blanket. Her childhood birthdays. Family vacations. Weddings where she had danced until her feet ached. Smiling faces. Familiar ones.
Then she noticed him.
A man. Always there.
In the background at her third birthday party, watching from the swing set. Standing near the buffet table at her uncle’s wedding. Even in a vacation photo from Ooty—his face half-hidden behind her father’s shoulder.
Asha frowned. She didn’t recognize him. Who was he?
She turned the pages faster now, heart pounding. The man was in every single photograph. Sometimes blurry, sometimes clear. Never drawing attention, but always there.
She grabbed her phone and snapped a picture of one of the photos. She sent it to her mother.
Who is this?
The typing bubble appeared. Then stopped. Then appeared again.
Finally, a reply.
What album are you looking at? We don’t have any photos with that man.
Asha looked down.
The man in the photograph was smiling at her.
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