Some people capture moments. Others capture what moments feel like.
Elias had a habit of chasing light.
Not the kind that burned too bright, but the kind that lingered - gentle, unhurried, the kind that stayed just long enough to be remembered.
His camera hung from his neck as he walked through the fading streets. The sky above the buildings melted from violet to gold, and he stopped every few steps to take a shot - a window reflecting the sunset, a bird caught mid-flight, a child tugging at her mother's hand.
Every photo was a piece of quiet. Every frame, a confession he couldn't speak aloud.
He wasn't always like this.
Once, the world had been loud - full of people, laughter, and the kind of dreams that made staying up late worth it. But somewhere along the way, something inside him had cracked.
Now, silence was his comfort. His photographs, the only way he could still say I'm here.
He crouched near a puddle that reflected the twilight sky.
The colors blurred - blue, gold, and something faintly purple. It was beautiful. He clicked.
And just as the shutter closed, he saw it again - that shimmer of light.
Thin, silver, almost invisible, stretching across the reflection like a strand of silk.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Gone.
Elias frowned, staring at the screen. The image looked perfectly normal, except for a soft glow where the light had been.
It wasn't the first time.
He'd seen it before - weeks ago, across another skyline.
Sometimes in the rain. Sometimes in dreams.
He didn't tell anyone. Because how do you explain to people that the air hums sometimes, that light feels like it's trying to speak?
He lifted his camera again. This time, he didn't take a picture. He just stood there, letting the light wash over him until the day folded into night.
Somewhere, faintly, he thought he heard music.
A guitar - soft, wandering, almost familiar.
And just like that, the thread stirred again.
Maybe some stories don't begin with ameeting. Maybe they begin with a feeling.