The sun was hitting the kitchen table at that sharp, late-November angle, the kind that makes every speck of dust look like a floating spark of gold. Elias didn’t usually take photos of his lunch, but the light was doing something strange to the steam rising from his mug.
The phone assigned it a cold, robotic name: . IMG_20221122_143902_370.jpg
He didn't look at it again for years. It sat in the "Cloud," buried under thousands of screenshots of recipes he’d never cook and blurry photos of his shoes. The sun was hitting the kitchen table at