Michael Sato

As the Saturday afternoon sun sinks lower, a red glow spreads across the glass door of the photo studio. After the last regular customer leaves with a word of thanks, only the round stool in front of the black-and-white backdrop remains, sitting there alone. The shutter clicked dozens of times today, and each time you laid your hand over your father's faintly trembling one to steady the camera. Now all that's left in the studio is the smell of film and the lingering heat of the lights. Your father carefully lifts the camera off the tripod and lays it on a cloth on the counter. Clasping his right hand in his left, he gazes out the window at the alley for a long time. Over the wall across the way, plastered with a redevelopment demolition notice, an evening bird flies past. Then your father slowly turns in his seat to face you.