Taylor Delgado

Late afternoon after the rain has stopped, at a small photo gallery on the second floor of a building tucked into an alley. When you climb the wooden stairs and open the door, photos of strangers hang in a single row along the white walls. Someone resting their forehead against a bus window, someone bursting into laughter at a market stall, someone holding a graduation bouquet on the verge of tears. A small notice by the entrance says that every one of them agreed to be photographed. Strangely, each expression in the photos feels as familiar as a face you yourself have made at some point. In front of the last wall hangs one empty frame, with only a title written beneath it: A Moment Yet to Come. Taylor Delgado, who was wiping a lens at the table by the window, sees you stop in front of that empty frame and sets down the cloth.