CHAPTER ONE
~THROUGH THE LENS~
"Some people write to be remembered. I take pictures to disappear." – Riley's journey
The sky hung low over the city, a blanket of grey stretched so tight it looked like it could split open at any moment. Riley slipped her camera over one shoulder and tugged her black hoodie tighter as the wind picked up on the avenue. Rain hadn't started yet—but the scent of it clung to the concrete, heavy and sharp, a promise of something brewing.
She had no real destination. That was the thing about her photo walks—they weren't about where she went. They were about who she found.
She moved through the streets like a shadow. Her boots hit wet pavement with soft thuds, steps practiced and deliberate. She scanned the city as she walked—every block a living film reel. A girl lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. A cab driver yelling at no one. An elderly woman with a lavender hat and a paper bag full of oranges.
Riley crouched down next to a puddle where neon signs from a nearby bodega danced on the surface. She lifted her Canon and snapped a quick shot as a man in a yellow raincoat stepped into the frame. Click. The moment was already gone, swallowed by traffic and motion.
The world didn't stop for anything. That's why she had to catch it before it moved on.
She turned onto a side street and let herself breathe.
This part of town was older—quieter. The kind of place where bricks still told stories, where windows weren't just glass but memories. A boy with a scar over his left eyebrow sat on the stoop of a brownstone, fiddling with a toy car. His mother stood a few feet away, talking into her phone in clipped Spanish.
Riley hesitated.
Then she stepped closer and crouched again. The mother looked up and met her eyes.
Riley held up her camera and mouthed, Okay?
The woman hesitated—then nodded once, just enough.
Click.
The boy looked up at the last second, eyes catching the light.
That one would stay with her.
---
She wandered for another hour before landing at her usual coffee spot, a hole-in-the-wall café with more plants than tables and a barista who wore the same mustard cardigan year-round.
The bell over the door jingled as she stepped inside, and warmth hit her like a soft wave.
"Hey stranger," called the familiar voice from the corner.
Mara.
Riley grinned before she even saw her. "You always get here first."
"Because I don't stop to photograph every gum wrapper on the sidewalk."
"It was a crushed soda can today. Big difference."
They hugged briefly, then settled into their usual seats by the window.
Mara slid a mug toward her. Black coffee, two sugars. Just how Riley liked it.
"You look tired," Mara said, studying her. "More than usual."
Riley shrugged. "Didn't sleep much."
Mara didn't press. She rarely did. That's why Riley loved her.
"I saw your post about the gallery," Mara said instead. "That's huge."
"It's just a local show."
"It's still a big deal. Your work's getting out there."
Riley sipped her coffee and stared out at the people passing by. Umbrellas were starting to bloom like flowers across the sidewalk.
"Doesn't feel like enough," she said quietly.
Mara tilted her head. "Enough for what?"
Riley didn't answer. Couldn't, really. The truth was, photography was the only way she knew how to exist in the world without being swallowed by it. But lately, even that had started to feel…hollow.
She turned back to Mara. "Did you ever feel like you were watching your life instead of living it?"
Mara paused, setting her mug down. "I did. For a while. After Mom died, I went numb. Just got through the days."
"How'd you stop?"
"I didn't. Not all at once, anyway. But I stopped pretending I was fine." She leaned forward. "You don't talk to anyone, Ry. Not really. Not about the real stuff."
Riley looked away. "There's not much to say."
Mara didn't argue. She just sat back and let the silence settle between them, thick but unforced.
It was the kind of silence that told Riley she wasn't alone, even if she didn't know how to be anything else.
---
Outside, the rain had finally arrived—not a downpour, just steady, patient. Riley leaned her head against the cool glass of the café window and watched people hurry by, faces hidden beneath umbrellas, shoulders hunched, each one absorbed in their own tiny world.
Sometimes she wondered what they'd think if they knew they were being watched. Not in a creepy way. Just… seen.
"I should go," she said eventually, standing. "Light's perfect right now."
Mara raised an eyebrow. "Rainy, grey, depressing. Your brand."
"Exactly."
"Hey." Mara caught her wrist gently before she could leave. "Don't disappear again."
Riley gave her a crooked smile. "I'm not disappearing. Just developing."
Mara groaned. "Wow. That was awful."
But her eyes softened as she let go.
Riley pulled her hood back up and stepped into the rain.
---
She made her way downtown toward the train yard. She liked the forgotten places best—where buildings leaned tiredly into one another and weeds grew through cracks without apology. The city was too polished sometimes. Too obsessed with being seen.
But not here.
She ducked through a gap in the chain-link fence and climbed over a pile of loose bricks. The abandoned tracks curved into the fog like something from a dream.
It was perfect.
She crouched by a broken section of rail, lined up a shot, and focused on a single, rusted bolt. As she adjusted the aperture, something moved in the corner of her frame.
She lowered the camera.
A man.
Across the tracks, maybe fifty feet away, leaning against a graffitied support beam, watching her.
No umbrella. Just a leather jacket, soaked dark.
He didn't look away.
Neither did she.
She stood slowly, heart skipping. Not in fear. Not quite. Just something sharper than instinct. Something aware.
He gave her a small nod. Not a greeting. More like a recognition.
She hesitated—then raised her camera again and snapped a photo.
By the time she lowered it, he was gone.
Riley stood there for another full minute, camera still in hand, staring at the place he'd been.
Who just stands in the rain like that?
She didn't know. But something told her she hadn't seen the last of him.
---
That night, Riley sat cross-legged on her floor with her laptop, editing the day's shots. The boy on the stoop. The umbrella reflection. The tracks.
And then… the man.
He was in the frame—barely. Blurred. Half in shadow. But even in the grain, his eyes were clear. He'd been looking right at her.
A chill danced down her arms.
She zoomed in, then out again, then stared at the screen for a long time.
She should've deleted it. It wasn't usable. The focus was off. The exposure was uneven.
But she didn't delete it.
Instead, she saved it into a private folder marked: Unsorted.
She leaned back against the wall, closed her eyes, and listened to the rain tapping against the windows like a metronome.
She didn't dream that night.
Or if she did, she couldn't remember anything except the feeling of being watched.
And, strangely, the quiet comfort of being seen.
—
The next morning, Riley woke to a steady pulse behind her eyes—the kind of headache that came not from lack of sleep, but from too much thinking. Her apartment was still dark. The blackout curtains made sure of that. The only light was from her laptop, still open, a soft white glow humming across the hardwood floor.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples, and scanned the room. Minimal furniture. One bookshelf stacked with old film cameras and battered novels. A corkboard above her desk, cluttered with pinned prints and scrawled post-its. In the corner, a stack of unopened letters from her father.
She didn't move toward them.
Instead, she padded to the kitchen, brewed a pot of strong coffee, and replayed the image in her head: the man by the tracks. How still he'd been. How precise. Like he knew she would take the photo.
She didn't know what bothered her more—that he didn't try to hide… or that she hadn't wanted him to.
---
Later that day, she met Mara again—this time at the downtown gallery.
The exhibit was just a week away, and they were finalizing her layout.
The place was all exposed brick, concrete floors, and nervous energy. The walls were half-hung with frames. Some of Riley's prints were already up: a woman laughing on a subway platform, a dog leaping through snow, a teenage couple kissing in a crosswalk while traffic roared around them.
"You know what I love about your work?" the curator, Sienna, said as she walked past. "It's voyeuristic, but never cold. Like you see people, but you don't take from them."
Riley nodded politely. She'd heard similar things before.
She wasn't sure it was true.
"Are these all?" Mara asked, flipping through a box of unmounted prints.
"Almost. There's one more I might include."
"Which?"
Riley hesitated. Then walked over to her laptop and pulled up the photo of the man by the tracks.
Mara leaned in. "Whoa. Who is that?"
"No idea."
"You sure you want to show this? It's different from your others."
"I know."
She didn't explain further. Couldn't, really.
Because that image wasn't about aesthetic. It wasn't about the rain or the composition or the contrast.
It was about the fact that—for the first time in months—she'd felt seen.
---
It was almost past 9:30
Riley couldn't sleep.
She paced her apartment barefoot, restless, flipping channels, listening to the city hum outside her windows. The man's face haunted her, blurred but unforgettable. She tried to distract herself—editing, organizing, even sorting through old photos.
She found one from three years ago. A candid shot of her mother laughing in the kitchen, flour on her hands, her face flushed with joy.
Riley traced the edges of the photo with her fingers.
Her mother had died eight months later.
Riley hadn't picked up her camera again for almost a year.
Yawn itched her throat.
"Oh God I need to get some sleep "
She muttered as she made her way to her bedroom.
...….
On Wednesday, it rained again.
She returned to the train yard.
She told herself it was just for the light. For the way puddles shimmered on the tracks and metal groaned in the wind. But the truth was, she wanted to see him again.
She took a few shots. Waited. Nothing.
After thirty minutes, she turned to leave.
And froze.
He was there. Leaning against the same support beam. Same jacket. Arms crossed.
This time, he smiled.
"Thought you might come back," he said.
Riley's mouth went dry. "You were watching me."
"Not exactly. Just… hoping."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
He shrugged. "You looked like someone who understands silence."
She wasn't sure how to respond to that.
He stepped forward, slowly, like not to spook her. He had dark eyes, tired around the edges, but honest. Honest in a way that made her uneasy.
"I'm Jacob," he said.
She didn't offer her name.
"You take pictures."
Still, she said nothing.
"I used to draw. Years ago. Before—" he stopped himself. "Before."
She finally found her voice. "Why here?"
"Because no one bothers you here."
That, she understood.
She turned to go.
"Will I see you again?" he asked.
She paused. Looked back.
"Maybe."
And just like that, she slipped back through the fence, heart pounding in a way she hadn't felt in years.