Gemotions

The photographs, faded and creased, spilled across the table. I picked up one of my black and white photos, the one I took in the rain in the old city. A deep sigh escaped me. The images were my life. Every print, a story. A small part of my past.

My son, Ethan, perched beside me, his eyes alight with a similar gleam. He had inherited my passion for photography, but his was a burning fire. He saw beauty where I saw everyday life. He saw art where I saw documentation.

He had my old camera, now. I remembered the feeling of it in my hands. I’d had it with me for so long. He was busy setting up the lights, planning his next shoot, a look of pure excitement on his face. He had already won an award. I felt a surge of… something. A deep happiness. My heart felt warm.