Over the next week, the photograph invited her back like a companion animal that learned to wait at the door. Each viewing yielded a small, uncanny drift. A new jar. A different reflection in the shop’s window—someone walking past, their face blurred into a gray oval. The more she watched, the more the image seemed to dissolve time into itself: a customer’s hand that appeared in one viewing as a child’s, in another as an adult’s, in another as a hand without skin, clean bone glinting grotesquely in the candy-shop glow. Yet no matter how the contents mutated, the static rectangle remained constant, sucking the eye.