Familiar

She looked at them and tried to imagine what that sense of collective belonging felt like; being part of a group of friends who had managed to remain close for so long. Looking at the old photographs now, she was almost jealous of their bond. Something she knew she’d never had.

Year after year, page after page, picture after picture – from black and white into colour – there they were.

Draped over each other.

Happy (mostly).

But together.

Until they weren’t.

Until they hit life’s inevitable apex and faces started to disappear.

Sometimes it was just a year, more often it was longer, but one by one the group of twelve diminished until at last there remained only two; her dead grandfather and an unknown woman.

It was the last picture in the album.

She lingered on it. The finality of the image, of their stories, hit with a profundity that moved her.

She closed the book. Lit a cigarette.

He had never mentioned them to her, and yet they were clearly incredibly close. They’d shared a life together, or at least a rhythm. Here was meticulous proof.

But who were they?

She flipped back to the beginning. Looked for clues. Landmarks, familiar rooms, logos, lapel badges, anything that could connect the people together.

Nothing.

What about the location?

Sometimes they were in a restaurant. A bar. A room.

Until that final picture. The one with her grandfather and the woman. She studied the background. That arched window.

She spun around.

They were in this room!

But who?

A magnifying glass sat among her grandfather’s papers. She grabbed it, leaned into the image.

On first glance the picture seemed innocent enough, but under the lens there were elements that just felt off. He looked relaxed, confident even. The woman, on the other hand, seemed rigid. Her smile strained.

Almost forced.

And, although they were holding hands, her fingers were not curled around his. They were straight. As though he was squeezing too tightly.

“Alright love?”

She looked up, felt guilty somehow. She pointed at the photograph.

“Who’s this?”

Her grandmother looked.

“No idea.”

“But it was taken in this room.”

“Would appear so.”

“Two people in a photograph taken in your home and you don’t know who it is?”

Her grandmother tilted her head defensively.

“Three.”

“What?”

“There are three people in that picture?”

“Where?”

“The photographer?”

“So… you didn’t take it?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

Her grandmother shrugged indifferently. Walked away.

A little too readily.

Going back to the beginning again, only this time she noted the faces. The identities. Changed over time, naturally, but their journeys could be traced. 

Only twelve people.

She went back again, this time using the magnifying glass.

And then she found them. Almost hidden to the naked eye. But there.

In three of the pictures the group had been in bars. Near reflective surfaces.

In each reflection, the same figure. Tall. Thin.

A thirteenth person.

___________________________________________________

The scanner groaned as it finished the last picture. It flashed onto her screen.

The ashtray had been empty when she’d returned home and started digitising the photographs. It was overflowing as she stubbed out her latest cigarette.

The more she studied the images, the more red flags went up. The weaker their façade.

In several pictures she noticed individuals not smiling. Staring too hard into the lens. Sometimes concerned. Sometimes angry.

As though they had reached the end of a tether.

In each instance, those people did not appear in subsequent pictures.

They were simply gone.

An e-mail notification flashed up.

Title : Familiar?

Sender : Gran

She opened the mail.

This arrived today.

Helpful?

Gran

A single attachment. She clicked it. But she already knew what it contained.

An image.

Dominated by the figure of a young woman, in her early twenties. She had thick, dark hair and wore a pale dress with a flowing scarf around her neck. She stood alone against a heavily wood-panelled wall.

She’d seen that place before.

She flicked back through the images. Right to the very first photograph in the album. To where the story began.

And there she was. The exact same woman. Nearly fifty years ago.

The same now as then.

But… that couldn’t be.

She looked again at the new image. At the watermarked time-stamp.

The day before.

She looked at the woman’s face.

She was smiling.

A genuine smile.

A winner’s smile.

A familiar smile.

But who sent-?

Then a soft tap at the door.