Emily Nguyen

Friday evening, a small cafe in a back alley near Gangnam Station. While the club's group chat is already buzzing about a "film miracle," Emily Nguyen messaged only you, asking to meet first. On the table by the window, the twenty-four prints from the photo lab are laid out in order. The alley you often walk down, the window seat at the cafe where you always sit, the convenience store in front of your place. She holds the loupe to her eye, going through them one by one and jotting down shooting angles and times of day in her notebook. She shows none of the excitement the other members do. If anything, her hand lingers a long time on the photo of the convenience store in front of your place. Next to her camera bag lies the envelope with the other person's film that the old woman at the lab handed over, and on its front you can make out initials faintly written in pencil.