The Picture She Keeps

The next evening, Shuyin gets home from work and opens the photo gallery before she takes off Yanqiao’s coat.

She sits at the kitchen table with the phone in both hands. The saved voice message waits in its own conversation. She leaves it there and taps the square of color marked Photos.

The red thread draws me close to her shoulder. The first pictures fill the screen in small tiles: receipts, bowls of noodles, a crooked stack of books. She scrolls past them, then stops and returns to the top.

Shuqiao arrives with dinner in a paper bag. She sets it on the counter and sees the gallery open. “You want company?”

“Could you stay a little?” Shuyin says. “I don’t want you to choose anything for me.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Shuqiao pulls out a chair. “I brought dumplings. They’ll get cold while we sit here worrying about pictures.”

Shuyin lets out a quiet laugh and keeps scrolling. I know the kitchen and the objects in it, but the images belong to the phone now. I can only watch her stop, enlarge, and move on.

There are photographs of the apartment before I knew how much of it I would leave behind: a loose cabinet hinge, a grocery list with her handwriting, the lamp by the sofa. Shuyin looks at each one. She doesn’t delete anything. She doesn’t mark anything to keep.

A photograph of her bicycle appears. The front wheel is turned toward the curb, and the silver bell catches a pale spot of light. She holds the screen closer, then swipes to the next image.

“That was before the repair,” she says. “The wheel kept pulling left.”

Shuqiao opens the food containers. “You still rode it.”

“I liked the bell.”

Her sister pushes a pair of chopsticks toward her. Shuyin sets them beside the phone and continues. The screen fills with familiar rooms and the changing seasons outside the apartment window. Once, she stops at a photograph of me asleep on the sofa, my mouth open, one sock missing. She presses her lips together, then swipes on.

I remember the day she took that one. I remember waking to her laugh and accusing her of waiting until I looked ridiculous. She said she’d keep it for blackmail. The photo is still there, and so is her quiet amusement now. I can’t tell whether she hears my answer in the memory or finds it in the picture alone.

The next few images come from Qingshan Station. One is a blurred shot of the platform sign. The one after it catches Shuyin standing by the glass wall, scarf slipping off one shoulder, her face turned toward the phone. In the reflection behind her, I am holding it with both hands.