Camera Shy Here

The old man ducked under a black cloth behind the camera. “Smile,” he murmured. “Or don’t. It doesn’t matter.”

“No.” She clutched her Pentax like a crucifix. “I don’t get my picture taken.” Camera Shy

Lena finally understood. She hadn’t been losing pieces of her soul to cameras. The old man ducked under a black cloth behind the camera

Lena smirked at the cheesy horror-movie tagline. But the man behind the booth made her pause. He was old, with skin like crumpled parchment and eyes the color of tarnished silver. He didn’t smile. He just looked at her Pentax and said, “You understand the cost of images, don’t you?” It doesn’t matter

He gestured to a chair in front of a massive, antique bellows camera on a brass tripod. “Sit. I’ll show you.”

Her breath caught. She did remember a specific flash. Her aunt’s Polaroid. The tug. And afterward, a persistent hollowness, like a forgotten word on the tip of her tongue.

That night, the carnival was a blur of neon and laughter. She photographed everything: the cotton candy machine spinning pink clouds, a toddler crying over a dropped ice cream, Mia shrieking on the Zipper. Her viewfinder was a safe, rectangular world.