Who is this? you ask.
Your mother studies the photograph, frowns. A portrait, bent-cornered, the man’s face angled in muted light.
Your father’s friend, maybe, she says. But no, she can’t say who it is, or why the picture’s in her box of postcards and letters. She hands the photograph back. Indeed you’re unsettled. The face seems familiar. Your dad has been dead for twelve years.
You carry the box out with others. There are many boxes. Dozens and dozens. The van downstairs is filling.