It was two days before Easter, and the market parking lot was a world of movement. Tires crunching over pavement, carts rattling against curbs, conversations floating in and out of earshot. But Henry wasn’t paying much attention to the noise—he was too busy holding his new camera, a Kodak Brownie. His Christmas present, a gift from his mother, had become his most prized possession.

He had taken a number shots already—his mom selecting a salmon fillet inside, a curious pigeon pecking at discarded crumbs near the entrance—but now, standing in the parking lot on this gray spring day, he turned his attention toward the street. He had one picture left on the roll of eight.

Cars and trucks zoomed past. He knew from experience that moving things blurred in photographs, a frustrating but fascinating phenomenon. So, he decided to wait—just for a moment—until the street was empty. He wanted this last picture to be perfect, to capture the somber silence of this gray spring morning.

The second came swiftly, a brief gap in the river of movement. Quickly he lifted the camera to his eye, held his breath, and pressed the shutter.

A week later, the pictures returned from the developer. He rifled through them eagerly at the kitchen table while his mom prepared dinner—the salmon now resting in the pan, sizzling gently.

And then, he froze.

The street—he had been so sure it was empty when he pressed the shutter. But in the picture, a girl walked along the sidewalk, her being clearly filled with joy and happiness, and at her side trotted a handsome dog.

How had he not seen them?

The mystery gnawed at him for days, then lingered for years. The photograph remained one of his favorite possessions. Every so often, he would take it out and study it, wondering.