There was a film left in the camera, the night Uncle Steve disappeared. We had to send it off to be developed – his dark room was a mystery to us.
When the prints came back, we clustered round the kitchen table as Aunty Barb opened them.
She never said a word. Her hands shook more and more as she went through them, and her face froze. Then, suddenly, she got up and left the room.
She never mentioned the photographs, or Uncle Steve again, and we never asked her what she’d seen.
Ninety three words for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers. I could have added the days of the week…image by Ted Strutz, words by me, prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 
Sarah writes poems 