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I found it in an old book bought at a thrift store near the port. Tattered pages, a light smell of salt and time. Between the chapters is a black and white photo. A woman in a white dress stands by the water. Her face is blurred, but her posture is expectant.

I don’t know who she is. But in her bare feet, in the shadow of the sand, in her slight stoop, there is something of mine. I put the photo on the shelf. Now it is with me. As a reminder that we are all someone’s unfinished stories.