Darkroom Discovery
The image had fully emerged now, a couple beneath the soft Parisian light. But their eyes - those eyes - were wrong. They weren’t frozen in time like the others. They were alive. Watching. His breath caught as he leaned closer, and for a split second, he swore the woman blinked. A jolt ran through him, sharp and cold, and his heart thudded against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He stepped back, knocking a bottle off the counter. It clattered to the floor, but the sound didn’t echo the way it should have. The room felt thick. Listening.
He held still, straining to hear past the hum of the ventilation fan. There it was again - a soft rustle, like fabric brushing against metal. He turned, but the room was empty. Or at least, it looked that way. The red light flickered slightly, casting new shadows across the drying prints. He glanced back at the photo in the tray. The couple hadn’t moved, but something had shifted. Their gaze was no longer at the camera - it was at him. Not like a memory, but like a mirror. Like they were seeing him now, through the layers of emulsion and time.
He swallowed hard. Was he alone? He had been, hadn’t he? The film had traveled back with him from Paris, sealed and untouched. But now he wondered - had something else come through with it? Something that had waited, hidden in the grain, until the chemicals coaxed it into form. A presence. Not malevolent, but not benign either. Just… watching. He reached for the light switch, but hesitated. Part of him didn’t want to see what else might be standing in the room.
Darkroom Discovery
The image had fully emerged now, a couple beneath the soft Parisian light. But their eyes - those eyes - were wrong. They weren’t frozen in time like the others. They were alive. Watching. His breath caught as he leaned closer, and for a split second, he swore the woman blinked. A jolt ran through him, sharp and cold, and his heart thudded against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He stepped back, knocking a bottle off the counter. It clattered to the floor, but the sound didn’t echo the way it should have. The room felt thick. Listening.
He held still, straining to hear past the hum of the ventilation fan. There it was again - a soft rustle, like fabric brushing against metal. He turned, but the room was empty. Or at least, it looked that way. The red light flickered slightly, casting new shadows across the drying prints. He glanced back at the photo in the tray. The couple hadn’t moved, but something had shifted. Their gaze was no longer at the camera - it was at him. Not like a memory, but like a mirror. Like they were seeing him now, through the layers of emulsion and time.
He swallowed hard. Was he alone? He had been, hadn’t he? The film had traveled back with him from Paris, sealed and untouched. But now he wondered - had something else come through with it? Something that had waited, hidden in the grain, until the chemicals coaxed it into form. A presence. Not malevolent, but not benign either. Just… watching. He reached for the light switch, but hesitated. Part of him didn’t want to see what else might be standing in the room.