The promenade was nearly empty, the sea pulling quietly at the shore as gulls wheeled overhead in slow, uneven spirals. Most of the amusements were shuttered this time of year, windows fogged over, the carousel tucked beneath a heavy tarpaulin like a forgotten gift. Sam wandered without direction, hands buried in the pockets of their duffle coat, each step rhythmic against the damp planks.
They weren’t supposed to be here. Not really. Fairhaven was a half-memory at best—the sort of coastal town their adoptive mum once called a place with 'character,' which meant faded bunting, overly-vinegary chips in soggy newspaper, and shuttered arcades. She’d brought them here once in 1981, just before she stopped talking about the past. Said it was where the story began.
That phrase lingered oddly, like something borrowed from a bedtime story or a cheesy TV show.
At the far end of the pier, tucked between Madame Irena’s boarded-up palm-reading hut and a flaked blue ice cream kiosk, stood an old photo booth. Sam paused. It looked too narrow, too quiet, like a doorway left ajar in the wrong decade. The curtain—a faded school-uniform grey—shifted faintly in the wind.
They stepped inside.
The seat creaked as they sat. Sam fed in a half crown—worn and obsolete, a coin no machine should accept anymore. A soft mechanical whir followed, then a series of slow, searing flashes. Four frames. Blink. Breathe. Blink again.
The strip slowly slid into view with a mechanical sigh.
Sam blinked.
It was them. And it wasn’t. Same jawline, yes. But the hair was longer. The expression—softer, distant. The eyes held something they hadn’t worn in years. One frame showed a faint smile, hesitant like someone testing a mirror.
The next day, Sam returned.
Another coin. Another strip.
This time, they were older. Faint lines at the corners of their eyes, and a small scar above the brow. They wore earrings—simple gold hoops. One frame caught them mid-laugh. It felt unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Like remembering the end of a joke you'd almost forgotten.
“That booth? Almost as old as the pier itself,” said the café owner just off the front. He handed over a chipped mug of milky tea. “Some say it shows who you’d be if you’d never left.”
The tea tasted faintly of chalk and something else—something forgotten. Sam didn’t respond. Not because they didn’t believe him, but because part of them already did.
That night, in a drawer beneath curled Polaroids and a half-filled Green Shield stamps book, they found the photo—creased, edges gone soft. Their mum, and a woman Sam didn’t recognise, standing in front of a wonky sign: Welcome to Fairhaven Pier. Scribbled on the back, in spidery biro: "Elise, 1967. She couldn’t stay. You shouldn’t hate her for that."
Sam returned the next morning. The booth waited, still and silent, like it had always been.
This time, there were two figures. Sam. And her. Elise. The resemblance was unmistakable—like something glimpsed once, now perfectly aligned. In the first frame, they stood apart. In the second, closer. In the third, her hand hovered near Sam’s shoulder. And in the last, it rested there. Gently. As though she’d always known they’d come. Her hand in the frame looked steady. Sam’s own trembled just slightly.
At the local library, a woman behind the desk spoke softly over the drone of a portable heater and the smell of old lino and dust. “She was found after vanishing for months. Never said where she’d been. Only that she had to leave something behind.”
Sam stared at the page. Missing. Returned. Unwilling to speak.
The photo booth was waiting.
Final visit. Final coin.
This time, the photos were blank at first.
But slowly, they developed.
Sam, alone in the first. In the second, a shadow. In the third, a blurred hand. In the fourth: the same face from the first ever strip, softened now. At peace. The eyes no longer searching.
The booth whirred faintly, then went still again.
They waited, breath held—not in suspense, but in release.
Then they stepped out into fog. The sea whispered. The promenade creaked underfoot. A gull called once, then was gone.
In their palm, the strip of photos fluttered, the light catching each frame just long enough.
They didn’t look back.
Some stories don’t end. They just wait to be held in the light.
You’re just such a fantastic image creator, Robert. I loved it
You took me there, Robert. Thank you.