Minh An recognized the girl in the photograph at 3:17 p.m., in the middle of an unremarkable rainy day.
He knew the exact time because the clock hanging on the wall of the restoration room had been running four minutes slow for two years, while his phone had just run out of battery. Those were usually the details people forgot. Minh An didn't. He made a living preserving the things other people had left behind.
The photograph lay inside a brown paper box, delivered along with more than three hundred old photographs belonging to a family that had left no return address. The photographic paper had yellowed. In the lower-right corner was a water stain shaped like a bird's wing. The photograph showed an old station, a young man standing with his back to the camera, and beside him, Minh An from twelve years ago.
He recognized himself immediately.
The dark blue jacket. His hair blown crooked by the wind. His right hand gripping his backpack strap, while his left was hidden behind his back because he had cut it climbing over the station fence.
Minh An didn't remember who had taken the photograph.
He remembered the girl standing beside him even less.
She wore a cream-colored dress, her hair tied low, her face turned toward him. Her smile was very small, as if she would turn back the moment the photographer called her name.
Minh An flipped over the back of the photo.
There was no date. No note.
Only a single line written in blue ink.
Don't let him go alone.
He read it a second time. Then a third.
Outside the glass door, rain poured down in blurred, opaque streaks. Inside, the scanner's hum was steady. A drop of water fell from Minh An's hair onto his wrist, icy cold.
He placed the photograph beneath the white lamp.
Far in the background, behind the girl's shoulder, a blue umbrella stood propped against an iron column. Minh An stared at it for a long time. He'd once had an umbrella like that, but he'd thrown it away after the accident that year. Or rather, he thought he'd thrown it away.
"Find another ghost story?"
Tung stood outside the door, holding two cups of coffee and wearing the expression of someone far too used to his friend finding things that shouldn't exist.
"Do you see anything?" Minh An asked.
Tung stepped closer. He bent over the photograph and narrowed his eyes.
"I see you when you were younger. You looked even more clueless than you do now."
"What about her?"
Tung looked at the empty space beside Minh An.
"What girl?"
Minh An said nothing.
Tung picked up the photograph. His finger skimmed across the photographic paper, right where the girl was standing. A moment later, he laughed.
"It's just glare. Adjust the contrast and it'll be fine."
"You really can't see her?"
"Minh An." Tung set his coffee down on the table. "How many hours have you slept?"
Minh An was about to answer, but the question caught in his throat.
The night before, he had dreamed of a flooded tunnel. Someone stood on the other side of the glass, pounding on it and calling his name. He couldn't make out what the person was saying. He only remembered that voice making his chest ache as if he had just lost something important.
He didn't tell Tung about the dream.
Minh An took the photograph from his friend and placed it on the scanner. Blue light passed over the old paper. A clearer version of the photograph appeared on the screen.
The girl was still there.
But this time, she was looking straight into the camera.
Minh An leaned close to the screen.
She had very bright eyes. So bright that he felt he had seen them somewhere before, on another afternoon, beneath another rain. Somewhere his memory couldn't reach.
Then the image on the screen flickered.
The girl disappeared.
Only Minh An remained, standing alone on the platform.
Tung let out a breath of relief.
"See? It's just a machine error."
Minh An looked at the photograph in his hand. The girl was still there, fainter than before but not completely gone.
His phone suddenly vibrated.
The screen lit up even though the battery had died that morning.
A message arrived from a phone number with no digits.
Do you still have the blue umbrella?
Minh An didn't know why his hand had begun to tremble.
A second message appeared right after it.
If you're still there, don't go to the station tomorrow.
At the back of the room, the scanner switched itself on again. Blue light flooded across the photograph once more.
This time, the girl was no longer standing beside Minh An.
She stood behind him.
And her hand was resting on his shoulder.