Entry Begins

That’s her… my whispering Polaroid camera.

I wasn’t supposed to be in that shop.
I was out working on a street photography project, just walking the older parts of Lisbon, looking for texture, faces, small accidents of light.

I passed by the window without thinking.
Then I saw them — a row of old film cameras, sun-bleached and dusted with time. I stepped inside. Just for a look.

I don’t even remember the name of the shop, just the flicker of fluorescent lights and the kind of silence that settles around forgotten things.

I was halfway to leaving when I saw her.

A Polaroid camera.
Used. But in near-perfect condition. No scratches, no cracks, like she'd been waiting on that shelf for someone to notice.
For me.

There were five photos tucked inside the bag.
Each one had something written on the white frame — messages, I guess. The handwriting felt careful. Like someone was trying to hold on to a thought before it disappeared.

It was a good deal.
That’s what I told myself. That’s why I bought it.

I brought it home.

Inside the bag: the camera, a small notebook with a black elastic band, and an old book, marked up, underlined, someone else's thoughts scribbled between the lines.
I haven’t opened them yet. I keep telling myself I will.

The photos haven't stopped speaking since.
Not out loud. Not exactly.
But I hear them anyway.