The Sunday morning sun slanted through the sycamore leaves, casting dappled light on the bronze plaque of the old camera shop. Lin Shen checked his phone for the third time—twenty-five minutes remained before their meeting, yet his palms were already clammy with sweat. He adjusted his shirt collar again, and his nervous reflection in the glass window showed a navy tie askew, mirroring the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat.
The doorbell jingled clearly as he pushed it open. Inside the shop, redolent with leather and camphor, he made straight for the vintage tripod in the corner, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the cool metal grooves. A Seagull DF-1 camera displayed on the shelf suddenly reminded him of the way her eyes had sparkled when she handled it last time. On an impulse, he took it down, pretending to focus on polishing the lens while stealing frequent sidelong glances at the door.
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