The Girl in the Photograph

Jeremy was in love with a photograph.

To be more precise – he was in love with the girl in the photograph. It lay behind a thick sheet of glass. He pressed his hands up against it, drowning in her pure crystal irises. This was his 10th visit to the museum since the exhibit had opened a week ago.

The photograph cut off after her collar bones, so Jeremy did not know whether she was tall or short. But something about the angle of her face, the elegance in it, seemed to suggest that she was tall.

“Hey, get away from the glass!”

The guard eyed him menacingly. He sighed and turned to leave. He’d be back later, anyways.

Jeremy had a half hour to kill before his lunch break ended, so he decided to walk through Trafalgar Square. It was while he was leaning against the lions, watching traffic, that he saw her. She was standing across the street. Watching him. Those crystal irises driving right through him.

He rubbed his eyes, sure he was imagining things. Because the girl in the photograph had lived and died a century ago.

The End

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