Memories have the caresses of your hands. By Carlos del Puente

 Memories have the caresses of your hands. In the corner of the dimly lit room, a man sat hunched over a table, his eyes glued to the tiny screen of an ancient camera. His thick, calloused fingers danced over the buttons with surprising grace, bringing the device to life with a series of clicks and whirs. The air was heavy with the scent of dust and nostalgia, and the only sounds were the occasional creaks of the old wooden floorboards beneath his feet. "It's like a time machine, you know?" he murmured to himself, the words barely audible. His name was Arthur, a name that seemed to fit the era of the camera better than it did the modern world outside. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke of his craft, his voice held a certain warmth that belied his rough exterior. The camera had belonged to his grandfather, a man whose stories had painted vivid images of faraway lands and adventures long ago forgotten. Arthur had discovered it tucked away in the attic, buried under layers of discarded Christmas decorations and dusty old clothes. It was an unexpected gift, a gateway to a past he had never known. "I wonder what you've seen," he whispered, his eyes tracing the worn leather and the brass fittings. Each scratch on the camera's body was a line on the face of a silent witness to a lifetime of moments frozen in time. The lens was clouded with the whispers of memories, and Arthur felt a strange kinship with the object that had captured so much of what was now lost. He gently pulled out a roll of film, the edges curled and brittle with age. Carefully, he unraveled it, exposing the hidden photographs to the flickering light of the single bulb hanging above. The images were a blur of color and shadow, but as he squinted, they began to sharpen. A young couple on a beach, a laughing child with ice cream smeared across their face, a quiet street in a town long abandoned to progress. Each photograph was a puzzle piece of a life that had once been so full of color and sound, now reduced to a silent film strip of moments. Arthur felt a twinge of sadness, but also a fierce determination to breathe new life into these old memories. He didn't know who these people were, but he knew their joy and their love, and he was determined to share it with the world. With a sigh, he placed the film back into the camera and stood up, his joints popping with the sudden movement. It was time to start his own adventure, to capture the world as he saw it. The camera felt heavy in his hand, a symbol of the legacy he had inherited. As he turned to leave the room, he heard a faint sound, like the rustle of old paper. He turned back, his heart racing, but the only thing that met his gaze was the empty chair and the lingering scent of his grandfather's pipe. The world outside was a blur of neon lights and honking cars, a stark contrast to the quiet sanctity of the room he had just left. Arthur took a deep breath, the camera slung over his shoulder like a badge of honor. He had a story to tell, one that would resonate with the hearts of those who had forgotten the beauty in the ordinary. And with each click of the shutter, he would bring those lost moments back to life, one frame at a time. The story begins with Arthur, a man who finds an old camera in his attic. He's fascinated by the relic, and through exploring it, he discovers a connection to his grandfather's past. The camera becomes a catalyst for his own journey, as he starts to appreciate the art of photography and the power of memories it holds. The setting is intimate and nostalgic, with Arthur's voice guiding us through his thoughts and feelings about this unexpected gift from the past. The tension builds as he contemplates the mysterious photographs and the life they represent, leading him to a decision to embark on his own adventure to capture the world in images. The story opens with a sense of curiosity and wonder, setting the stage for a narrative that will likely explore themes of family, legacy, and the human connection to moments captured in time.

By Carlos del Puente