Chapter 1 – The First Photograph

Chapter 1 – The First Photograph

Smoke. Thick, like something was on fire.

Azora was running. He didn't remember deciding to run — he just found himself already in the middle of it, hands burning from a heat he couldn't explain, a small white photograph crushed in his fist.

Then everything stopped.

The street was normal again. People walking by. No smoke, no fire, like the last minute had never happened.

He looked down at the photo in his hand.

The street. Smoke. A car on fire.

This hasn't happened yet, he thought. It's about to.

One day earlier

Tuesday afternoon. The sun was starting to dip, and students were pouring out of the school gates, laughing, shoving each other near the bike racks. Azora walked with his hands in his pockets. Rojo swung his bag over one shoulder beside him.

"I'm starving," Rojo said.

"You ate an hour ago."

"So?"

"So you're always starving."

"It's not just hunger, it's a gift." Rojo grinned. "One day I'm opening a restaurant."

"What's on the menu, homework?" Azora smirked.

"You say that like you could do it better."

"There's a difference between wanting to open a restaurant and knowing how to cook," Azora said. "You got a menu? A business plan? Or is the whole idea just 'open a restaurant' and that's it?"

"God, breathe," Rojo said.

A kid on a bike came flying past too fast and wiped out with a crash. Azora was already moving before he'd finished thinking about it, pulling a handkerchief out as he ran. Rojo jogged up behind him.

"Since when do you run that fast?"

The kid was crying. Azora crouched down next to him.

"Hey, buddy. You hurt? Where does it hurt?"

"M-my leg," the kid managed between sobs.

Azora pressed the handkerchief against the scrape. "This hurt?"

"It hurts—"

He eased off immediately, careful not to press too hard. "What's your name?"

"T-Takumi."

Rojo dug a bandage out of his bag and handed it over. Azora taped it over the scrape.

"You remember how to get home, Takumi? Go straight back, and get some air in those tires before you break your neck." He glanced up at Rojo. "Where the hell did you even get a bandage?"

"You have any idea how many times a day I get hurt?"

"You cut yourself chopping salad?"

Rojo made a face. "Whatever. I'm heading out. See ya."

"Bye."

Azora headed home the usual way — except the road was blocked off. A sign read ROAD WORK. He flagged down one of the workers.

"Hey, sorry — what's going on here?"

"Road work for the week. You can cut through over there instead."

"Thanks." Azora hesitated, glancing down the unfamiliar side street. "Never actually walked this way before."

He was about to head off when something caught his eye — an old camera sitting on a low wall, dust thick on the casing.

"...What is this thing? How old is it, like three hundred years?" He picked it up, turning it over. "This is insane. Let me just—"

Click.

A photograph slid out. Azora stepped back, startled, then leaned in again and pulled it free.

"What— is this some kind of prank? I didn't even touch the button."

He stared down at the photo.

The street in front of him — the one he'd been standing on thirty seconds ago — was on fire. A car burned in the middle of the road, smoke pouring across the pavement, ambulance and police lights strobing red and blue against the buildings.

Then he heard it.

Boom.

He was already running.

Someone was trying to crawl out of one of the wrecked cars. Azora didn't think — he just went, the same handkerchief still balled up in his hand, no idea what he was actually supposed to do with it. The man was bleeding from his chest and his head, and Azora pressed down on both, switching between them, trying to make his hands do the job of four.

"Am I gonna make it?" the man rasped. "I have to — I have a wife. A daughter. She's six—"

He started crying.

"You're going to make it," Azora said. "I promise."

The first ambulance screeched up. Two paramedics ran over and pulled him back.

"You know him?" one of them asked.

"No. But he's going to be okay, right?"

"I hope so," she said, already turning back.

The other two paramedics climbed out of the ambulance and looked at each other — a small shake of the head, faces tight. Azora didn't understand at first. Then he did.

He walked away from the wreckage, stunned, and didn't notice he was crying until he tasted salt.

End of Chapter 1