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Twenty minutes left—of everything. And then, it'll be over again. In retrospect, the whole spring, summer, and autumn have passed in a blink of an eye, managing to somehow steal those few precious moments Victor had with Yuuri in a blur. In the Fukuoka airport, it doesn't matter that they've had months together. Now it's nineteen minutes left and Victor really should go.
But how can he leave when Yuuri holds his hand so tightly as though it were his lifeline?
“Attention. Last call to all passengers flying out to Moscow,” rings out a female voice. As the standard request to go through the check-in reverberates through the crowded hall, Victor sighs and rubs his dry, achy eyes.
It’s time; he can’t put it off any longer or he’ll miss the flight.
“I need to go.”
Yuuri's weight shifts then, his head on Victor's shoulder grows heavier just for a moment, only to move away. They try to keep as close to each other as possible even with Victor double checking his documents. And when he reaches for his baggage—
“I want you to have this,” Yuuri blurts and in a blink of an eye pushes into Victor's hands something he certainly wasn't holding before. The final warning for Victor's plane still echoes through the air when a neatly wrapped package lands in his hands.
“What is this?”
But Yuuri’s face is half hidden by his scarf, his eyes glued to the package. Victor hugs it close to his chest, just in case Yuuri's mind gives him a stupid, stupid idea to take the gift away. It seems to do the trick—Yuuri blinks and looks at Victor again.
He says, “Don't open it till you miss me.”
Silly, silly man. As if he doesn't know...
“I already miss you.”
The reflection of the overhead lights doubles in Yuuri's eyes. He breathes a short, wet laugh, cut by a barely-there sniffle. “Then open it in Russia,” Yuuri says, “when you're home.”
Victor bites back the 'Here is my home’ and instead says, “I love you.”
The package weighs in on his mind and luggage through the whole trip. Even Makkachin seems affected.
It's… a binder, Victor finds out at home. The first things he does when he crosses the threshold of the apartment, he pulls out the gift from Yuuri and unwraps it, right there next to the coat rack. Makkachin has dashed into the apartment without Victor getting to clean her paws, but honestly, neither of them cares right now.
A binder. Yuuri doesn't even like binders. Hell, Victor has never mentioned to Yuuri he liked them. He's just about to pull his phone out and send Yuuri a message, something concise and sweet that is definitely not questioning Yuuri how did he find out about his obsession, when he flips the hard cover open.
It's not a binder, his brain stupidly supplies as he stares down at a page of two transparent plastic pockets with a photo tucked inside each. Next to each pocket is empty space with three printed lines, the lines filled with Yuuri's handwriting.
The warmest day of summer 2016, reads the note next to the first photo, one showing both Yuuri and Victor barely dressed, sprawled on the floor of Victor's room in Hasetsu. Even though it's so hot—or because of if, really—both of them have one hand raised, holding their notebooks as makeshift paper fans, lazily moving them back and forth to supply each other with breeze-like relief.
Victor vaguely remembers the day, more or less. He remembers melting ice cream and laundry drying in under 10 minutes. Makkachin's water bowl being empty no matter how often they refilled it. Yuuri gently poking fun at him for his inability to deal with the heat in one moment, then wrapping cold, wet towels around him in the next. When exactly the photo was taken, he's not sure—the moment frozen behind the plastic seemed to have lasted hours at the time. Perhaps Mari took it before she brought them the lemonade. Or Makkachin grew thumbs. The heat messed with his mind so much, even just thinking about it now makes Victor's blood feel hotter.
The second photo is described with The night of the warmest day of summer 2016 and in it both he and Yuuri are smiling at the camera, their faces covered in a homemade, hydrating-and-cooling face mask. The cucumber slices have long dropped off their eyelids, in part because Makkachin kept barking when they kept them on. Mostly because after the whole day of being more or less dead to the world, their brains were filled with silliness and they couldn't stop laughing.
At the moment frozen in the photo, Victor remembers thinking of that day as the best one that summer; there was no chance things could be better than that.
Oh, was he a fool; that summer day shifted his experience of Hasetsu, simply turning out to be the first of the best days. More followed when Yuuri opened up more and more and spent more of his time with Victor than ever before. Such precious moments…
Now, they succeed at gripping at Victor's heart, vicious in their tenderness, rough in their delicacy.
“Oh, how cruel you are,” Victor whispers, to the photos, to Yuuri, to himself, to the kilometers splitting them apart.
He's weak to the gift, weak to the treasure and love he’s holding in his hands. After the long, long hours of his flight, all that these photos manage to do is make Victor aware exactly how big and empty his bed is. Months of no use must have threaded silvery cold through the sheets and turned memory foam into stone.
Still, it calls his name, so he fills Makkachin's bowls with food and water and goes willingly into the arms of treacherously dreamless rest. The photo album lies on the other side of the bed.
Yuuri’s not there when he wakes up—simple as that. At the beginning, it doesn’t seem out of the ordinary. Victor is in Saint Petersburg and Yuuri’s never lived here, his presence has never graced the apartment. He doesn’t have his own mug in the cupboard or his preferred utensils in the kitchen drawer. There’s not a chair at the table that’s Yuuri’s spot. The bookshelf doesn’t have Yuuri’s favourite books on it. The other side of Victor’s bed is cold. Because it’s Victor’s. Just Victor’s. Makkachin usually sleeps at the foot of the bed, not next to him.
There’s only one toothbrush in the bathroom, only one sponge, only one kind of shampoo, and one bottle of conditioner. One body towel, one hand towel, one bathrobe, and one pair of after-bath fluffy slippers.
One coat hangs in the foyer, with three pairs of shoes of the same size. Makkachin’s already waiting at the door for their one-on-one walk. Victor puts on his clothes—from his one-size clothing wardrobe, grabs her leash and off they go.
The streets are still more or less empty at 5am, save for the stray cat here or there. Makkachin doesn’t chase after them anymore, so well-behaved, but as soon as they reach the park, she surges after a flock of pigeons.
A chuckle rips its way out of Victor’s chest and he opens his mouth with, “Some things never change,” on his tongue and looks to his left—
only to find nobody there.
It stings just for a moment, like the cold winter wind running its long fingers through his hair, messing it even more. (Ah, he forgot to comb it.)
But of course, Yuuri’s not here. Yuuri’s never walked this pebbled path, nor has he sat on Victor’s favourite bench right under the big, aged oak, now bare and covered in ice and snow.
One day, Victor thinks and keeps walking. Someday soon.
“I’ll have to stay here for the rest of the month,” Yuuri tells him during one of their Skype calls. He’s sitting at his desk in Hasetsu, his fingers fidgeting with his phone. The tiny blue poodles on the back of the phone case dance on the screen. “You living here and coaching me really helped with the financial situation of the onsen. But now they need another set of hands to help out and before they find replacement I feel I really need to stay.”
“Oh,” is all Victor says. Not because he’s disappointed. Well—maybe he is, a little bit, but he’s not disappointed in Yuuri.
Which Yuuri seems to think, because his eyes lower in the screen and he stoops his head. “I’m really sorry, Vitya. I really am, I—”
“No no no, Yuuri, that’s not it.” Victor shakes his head and smiles. It’s not a happy smile, he’s not happy. But it’s a comforting one. “I understand, believe me. You have a very supportive family who raised a very supportive son.”
Yuuri keeps his head low and after a breath of silence, he drops his phone on the desk. His hands fly to his hair, carding through it before they end up supporting his head.
It’s quiet for a long moment and Victor doesn’t know what more to say. Ah, but there are so many things he wants to say, but the time isn’t right. Victor’s own wishes would only put guilt into Yuuri’s mind and he doesn’t want that.
“I…” Yuuri mutters, so quiet the microphone of his headphones nearly doesn’t catch it. The shaking breath he takes is much louder than before. “I really want to see you.”
In one moment, the image of Yuuri is slightly pixelated but as clear as their internet connection allows it. In the next, everything’s in blur. The only sharp edges Victor can feel are cutting through his soul.
Who would have thought missing somebody could hurt so much?
“Oh, Yuuri…” They do see each other—right in the screens in front of them—but Victor understands. “I really want to see you, too.”
Another bout of quiet follows, broken only by a stolen sniffle on either side of the connection. Yuuri seems to collect himself after a minute or two, and he looks at his screen again, chin resting on both hands. His eyes are wet but he tries to blink it away.
“Hey,” Victor says in the softest way he possibly can. At Yuuri’s small ‘hmm?’, he lifts two fingers to his lips and presses a kiss to the fingertips. With a smile, he says, “I want you to have this,” and gently places his fingertips on the screen, right over Yuuri’s lips.
The video call lags for a part of a second but when Yuuri finally catches up on what’s been done, his eyes grow bigger and his lips stretch in a smile before his whole face disappears behind his hands.
“Oh my god,” he mumbles, amusement curling around his voice and Victor can’t help but smile back. Yuuri’s fingers part and his brown eyes peep between the cracks. “Did you just give me a kiss?”
Victor shrugs, grinning and puts his elbows on the table, leaning on them. “I can’t kiss you properly so this is the best thing I can do right now.”
For a moment, there’s the same kind of longing in Yuuri’s eyes as there is in Victor’s heart; it’s so clear there’s no need for translations: “if only we lived closer, if only we could be in each other’s arms. Tomorrow, in two hours, now.”
Yuuri drops his hands and in the next moment, he presses his fingers against his lips and his hand disappears somewhere right below the camera. Victor breathes in in delight and covers his smiling lips to keep the phantom kiss there.
The video glitches for a moment, Yuuri’s pink cheeks and wistful eyes freeze on the screen, but in his headphones, his quiet laughter sounds clear as a bell. He has his head ducked when the call finally unfreezes.
“What?”
Yuuri shakes his head and looks up. “I put it on your forehead.”
Victor can’t help the soft snort he makes. “Well, then.” He moves his hand from his lips to his forehead and hums. “It feels very loved.”
“Good,” Yuuri says. There’s no sign of wetness in his eyes anymore. “Because it is.”
When the call ends, Victor closes his laptop and focuses on his heartbeat.
Slow.
Steady.
Alive.
His chest rises and falls with contentment, as it does every time he video chats with Yuuri. Just two hours of talking, of seeing each other, of eating together—lunch for Victor, supper for Yuuri—of moments of quiet and laughter.
On days like this one, with his soul full of Yuuri, he doesn’t open the photo album. He leaves it on the coffee table, there to keep his heart warm on another day; on moments when every part of him needs and misses but the source of it all is unreachable.
Victor flips to the next page and promptly looks back. In this one, he’s with Hiroko in the kitchen of Yu-topia Katsuki. He remembers that day as if it were yesterday, when in reality months have passed.
“Here’,” Hiroko says as she pours breading into a low bowl. “The cutlet needs to be breaded properly so it has the crisp edge.” She takes a piece of pork, covers it in flour and egg and then puts it flat on the bread crumbles. “Like this.”
Victor watches with rapt attention, tries to remember every step. He’s done similar things, of course, back at home when he cooked meals for one, but this here—it’ll be enough katsudon for the entire family. His eyes follow Hiroko’s fingers as she gently covers the cutlet in breading, then flips it over, pats the meat, and moves it onto the frying pain, seemingly unaware of the hot oil sizzling the second the meat touches it. Victor’s fingers clench with sympathy when a drop of hot oil lands on Hiroko’s skin but she doesn’t even flinch. The same soft smile graces her lips—like it always does.
He’s never seen her with anything but that friendly smile for anybody she talks to. Idly, he wonders if she ever gets tired of it.
“Now you try,” she says and Victor jumps into action. He takes a piece of meat and follows every step Hiroko has just showed him. Soon, another pork cutlet sizzles on the pan and Hiroko, bless her heart, claps her hands and gives him a broader smile. “Very well done! You’ll cook katsudon on your own in no time!”
It’s just a pleasantry, Victor knows, he’s not anywhere close to making the dish on his own, but something inside him still warms up at the praise.
You know what? Yes. He’ll learn more and he’ll cook katsudon on his own soon. That’s his goal. Maybe one day he’ll surprise Yuuri with it.
While Hiroko turns the cutlets to fry on the other side, Victor keeps on breading pieces of pork. They work in amiable silence, broken only by Hiroko humming some tune or another. Until...
“Victor?”
Victor turns at the sound of Yuuri’s voice.
“Is it okay if I take Makkachin for a run?”
“Of course.”
Just then, something flies into the kitchen—Victor sees it from the corner of his eye as he picks the bowl of breading and turns around to set it on the other counter where Hiroko can do whatever she does with leftover breading.
What follows, happens in the blink of an eye.
A butterfly flies in, its delicate wings hitting the air.
Makkachin shoots into the kitchen after it, eyes trained on it.
Victor stops in his tracks, eyes wide, and he’s about to shout—
Makkachin collides with him, tripping him, and rushes out through the kitchen door leading to the backyard to play more with the butterfly.
The pork breading in the bowl flies into the air—and greets gravity like an old friend. The crumbs meet on top of Victor’s head for a chit-chat.
For a moment, there’s only silence in the room, and then, out of all people, Hiroko stars laughing, openly and unabashedly.
Victor’s face warms up—but he can’t even feel embarrassed now, not when Yuuri joins Hiroko. He laughs, too.
Hiroko’s almost crying from laughter—and that’s the best thing he’s seen from the woman so far.
He wasn’t aware that Yuuri took a photo of that moment, but he’s glad he did. Nobody but them will ever see it, though, that’s for sure.
That night, when Victor breads his cutlet for dinner, he realises he’s done too much for just one person. His heart constricts.
There are days when Victor manages to focus on his practice time completely; days, when he works on his routines, gives his rinkmates his full attention, and shows Yakov how good his year-long break has been for him and his skating.
There are days when he smiles when he greets Makkachin upon his return from the rink, immediately takes her out for a walk, and is able to hold himself tall and grateful, content with his life because that’s the only life he gets and it’s okay if he can’t change some things about it just yet. He’s willing to wait. He’s okay with waiting.
But there are also days when his fingers itch so unforgivingly, nothing soothes them until he grips onto the photo album and flips through pages upon pages of the happiest months of his life.
One such evening, when longing tugs at his heart more than it has in two weeks, Victor opens the album to the place he bookmarked it, turns the page—and finds no photos there. Empty, transparent pockets stare back at him. What there is, is Yuuri’s handwriting filling the printed lines—what happened to the photos? Have they fallen out?
He leans forward and looks at the floor between the coffee table and the couch but there’s nothing aside from Makkachin's snout.
Maybe Yuuri forgot to put the photos in there?
The first time we shared your bed, says one note. Victor can't help the soft smile when he remembers—but before he lets himself indulge in the memory, he reads on.
The first time we walked Makkachin together
That time you caught me playing games at 3am even though we had practice in the morning
That time we laughed so hard our drinks came out through our noses
That time you tripped and I loved you even more
That time I moved into our home
His breath hitches as he stares at that note. Yuuri couldn't have a photo of that moment; it hasn't happened yet.
That time I surprised you with breakfast (yes, I did manage to wake up before you)
That time I won my fifth gold
That time we said “I do”
Victor spills his tea in his haste as he puts the photo album on the coffee table and grabs his phone. He only thinks to calculate what time it is in Japan when the signal already beeps against his ear.
(Three, four, five—six hours ahead. Damn, it’s 5am there, what is he even doing—)
The dialing is cut in the middle of another beep. For a moment, all Victor hears is rustling, probably sheets; it’s so early in the morning.
“Hello?” Yuuri asks in that groggy ‘I’m barely awake’ voice. Before Victor gets to reply, there’s rustling again, a soft click, more rustling and Yuuri’s voice once more, clearer this time. “Vitya? Is everything okay?”
Yes, it is, Victor wants to say, as much as No, no it isn’t. It’s neither and both at the same time.
“Marry me,” he says instead.
“Vitya…?”
“In the photo album you gave me,” Victor says, eyes fixed on the very thing, “you left several spaces empty. I want this one filled now. I want it so much, Yuuri.”
There’s a short moment of silence. Then, a soft huff of breath Victor has come to associate with Yuuri’s smiles.
“I promise, one day we will put a photo next to that note.”
“Yuuri…”
“I know,” Yuuri whispers. “I know. But listen to me. There’s no rush. I’m already yours, Vitya.”
With a soft sigh, Victor leans back against the couch and closes his eyes. “I love you,” he says quietly, basks in Yuuri echoing the same words. He adds, “You’re right,” even when his heart keeps on racing in disagreement, wants to fly to Hasetsu and elope with Yuuri immediately. “I just…”
“Yes?”
“I saw it. In my mind. I saw us standing there, holding hands. I saw the rings and the choir and everybody we love cheering for us.” He swallows and breathes a short, sad laugh. “I can see it right now.”
And even though it’s 5 in the morning in Japan, and Yuuri probably went to sleep only two hours ago, he sits up in his bed, turns the light on, and murmurs, “Tell me all about it.”
And Victor loves and misses him even more.
That time you came to Russia to stay
Yuuri’s dressed in a thick jacket and a black beanie that’s definitely too thin for the Russian winter in the photo. He’s dragging his baggage behind him, eyes bright and fixed on the camera, a smile on his face. His body’s tense, he’s just about to start running. Makkachin’s already on her way to him. Other people at the airport blur all around them, Yuuri is the only point in focus.
“Since my flight arrived so early, I thought you wouldn’t be there,” Yuuri says, his finger stroking the date next to the note. 40 years ago. He’s told his thoughts to Victor every time they opened their photo album to look through it again.
“Silly you,” Victor replies, as always, and rubs his hand up and down Yuuri’s arm. They sit in a half embrace. “I’ll always be there.”
“You always say it.”
“And I always mean it.”
And he does.
The first time we shared your bed
When Yuuri wrote that note all those years ago, next to an empty plastic pocket, he didn’t mean that time they’d fallen asleep together in the banquet room in Hasetsu. Instead, he meant the moment that’d come to be the first night he moved into Victor’s apartment—their old apartment now.
Yuuri’s still asleep in the photo, unaware of the morning already spilling its light over him and Victor. Unaware of the fact that Victor’s woken up early, has been awake for over an hour now and unable to fall asleep again because his heart wouldn’t let him. In the photo, Victor’s holding the camera above their heads with one hand, while he has the other wrapped around Yuuri.
“When you shifted so close,” Victor breaks the comfortable silence, “and your arm wrapped around me, and you opened your eyes and looked at me—”
“I did? I don’t remember.”
Victor chuckles and bumps their heads together. “You were still asleep,” he says. “You looked at me and lifted your head and made that adorable little sound. And then you put your head on my chest and went back to sleep.”
And that’s exactly the position Yuuri’s in in the photo—face half hidden in Victor’s chest, his shoulder drawn to his chin with how close he’s hugging Victor.
“That was the moment I truly felt that all of it was really happening.”
That time I moved into our home
The photo is much darker than all the other ones, chosen over the one they took with flash, mostly because it gave it character and looked more like what their evening really was. A city-wide power outage, on the very first day Yuuri’s things arrived from Hasetsu, with his parents’ blessing on top. Instead of waiting till next morning, they decided to unpack everything right then, since Yuuri was sure not to feel sleepy till at least 3am. The photo itself was taken at 2:30am. In the background of it, on the coffee table, stands a cluster of lit candles of various shapes and sizes. One of the windows is cracked open to let the fumes out and let in the fresh, cold air. The Chinese takeout boxes they ordered for dinner have been put away on the breakfast bar after that one time Yuuri accidentally knocked down one of the candles and nearly set the carton on fire. The living room is full of boxes, those that are empty and set aside, and those that are still to be unpacked, but Yuuri in the photo is not paying them any mind. He’s just found the photo album he gifted to Victor weeks before, the thing lying on the shelf right underneath the coffee table. Victor took the photo on his way back from the bathroom.
“I remember worrying that it was a stupid thing to give to you,” Yuuri murmurs, his head on Victor’s shoulder. “And then I saw it right there in the open, for everybody who walks in to see… It felt monumental.”
Victor smiles. “I loved it very much. I still do.”
Yuuri nods. “You know what made me stop worrying, though?”
“What?”
Yuuri turns page after page, moments from their shared life passing right before their eyes on rewind, until he stops on the page with the photo of Victor helping Hiroko make katsudon. In the pocket underneath it, rests the piece of paper with a recipe for the dish.
“This.” Yuuri taps his finger over the recipe. “It had oil stains and panko dust all over it. And flour in the crack of the spine. It looked so well-loved.” He smiles at the yellowed paper; lovingly caressed by passing time just as the two of them have been. “You used the recipe and I didn’t think you would.”
“Of course I did.” Victor tightens his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders and presses a kiss to his temple. “To you, katsudon tastes of victory. To me, it tastes of you.” The look Yuuri gives him kicks his heartbeat faster. “The first time I made it, I missed you so much it hurt.”
“Oh,” Yuuri breathes; it’s all he can manage as he watches Victor’s face, eyes soft and glistening behind his glasses. He lifts his hand and strokes the side of Victor’s face with his fingers. Every wrinkle feels so smooth under his touch. “I missed you, too,” he says.
It wasn’t the last time they had to be apart. It wasn’t the last time they missed each other. It was the last time, however, of them doubting the other missed them just as much.
That time I surprised you with breakfast (yes, I did manage to wake up before you)
“It was a good breakfast,” Victor hums, smiling at his own delighted face frozen in the photo. He’s staring at the tray Yuuri brought him, tiny pieces of sushi, rice balls shaped like pandas, a cup of coffee with cocoa powder Makkachin drawn on the foam, a little blurred and already melted, all for them to share during their breakfast in bed. The small melon pancakes tasted heavenly on Yuuri’s lips.
Yuuri smiles. “I’m glad you liked it.” His eyes are slightly unfocused—he must be thinking back to that morning, too.
Victor knows very well how to bring him back. “You know,” he says, a gentle smirk forming in the corner of his lips, like the secret he’s guarded most of his life, “I know you never went to sleep that previous night.”
Yuuri makes a questioning sound and looks up at him, eyebrows pinched. “What do you mean?”
Victor’s chest shakes with his silent laugh as he taps his finger against the words “manage to wake up” of the photo description. “You didn’t wake up before me because you hadn’t gone to bed at all.”
“Maybe I slept on the couch.”
“No, you didn’t. I checked up on you every time I stirred awake. You were too engrossed in Kingdom Hearts to notice.”
“Why have you never told me?”
“Because after that breakfast you never worried about getting up before me ever again.” Victor leans in to kiss Yuuri’s forehead and when he leans away, he pushes Yuuri’s glasses back to the top of the bridge of Yuuri’s nose. “Call me old-fashioned, but I would have much rather woken up to you by my side than to the cold sheets on your side of the bed. Still do.”
(Next morning, despite Yuuri waking up before Victor, he stays in their bed. And when Victor opens his eyes, he’s greeted by warmth.)
That time I won my fifth gold
Yuuri looks handsome in the photo, at least three flower crowns on his head, a gold medal hanging proudly around his neck. He’s skating back to Victor, the lights of the rink and cameras’ flash reflecting in the Swarovski crystals of his gorgeous costume. Out of the whole world, he’s the only thing that’s in focus. His eyes are wide and he’s covering his lips with his unoccupied hand. At the bottom of the photo, Victor’s hand is visible, holding a small, open box. Inside of it gleam two rose gold rings.
Years later, looking at the photo, neither Yuuri nor Victor say anything. They rest their heads against each other, close their eyes, and enjoy being in each other’s embrace.
That time we said “I do”
“We have a big anniversary coming.”
“Which one is it now? 40th?”
“50th, my love. We celebrated the 40th almost 10 years ago.”
“That’s twice the age I was when we got married. Time flies so fast.”
“What would you like to do to celebrate? Should we go dancing?”
“People don’t dance today like we used to, I’m afraid.”
“Then we could show them and teach them. Maybe they’d teach us something in return.”
Yuuri chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “I don’t want this to be very public,” he says in a soft voice as he turns another page of the photo album.
In it, the younger versions of them stand facing each other on the Hasetsu shore, their feet bare and covered in a tide washing over the sand. They’re holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes, lost in the middle of laughter.
Yuuri strokes the plastic-protected photograph with his fingertips. “I want to marry you again.”
“At the ocean? We can go right now. Maybe Axel or Lutz could keep an eye on the onsen...”
“Always so impatient.”
“You know, you tease me about it, but you’re the one who proposed that first time in Barcelona.” Victor grins and yelps when Yuuri pokes a finger into his side. “What was it? Just 10 months of us knowing each other?”
“More if we count the banquet,” Yuuri murmurs.
“Which you still don’t remember.”
“You know how fickle my memory is, don’t tease an old man.”
“Yuuri~!”
Yuuri only smiles and leans his head against Victor's shoulder. They look through the album, at the many photos taken during each vow renewal, each impromptu proposal, each vacation taken under the pretext of belated honeymoon. Many, many honeymoons.
Some memories have faded with time; forgotten faces and names that tickle the tips of their tongues but never quite manifest themselves in letters or sounds. Some feelings, intense in the moment of the photographs taken, now serve as a peaceful reminder of the days that were. Some things end, some begin… but some remain.
Like the comfort of an old photo album and a glint of gold rings.