diskusbooks Chapter 638 The Photographer's Guilt
Chapter 638 The Photographer's Guilt
As the cicadas' chirping, accompanied by waves of heat, swept across the tin roof of the cannery, Zhan Mengyan was wrapping her reddened fingers in rubber gloves. A week earlier, she had stood on tiptoe to submit her resume to the personnel department window of Hualian Cannery. After a week of relentless effort, with countless drops of sweat trickling into her collar, the assembly line conveyor belt spit out the last batch of canned yellow peaches, and Zhan Mengyan finally saw the number on her payslip—enough to pay off the debt to the photo studio.
The moment Zhan Mengyan pushed open the glass door of the photo studio, the copper bell on the lintel rang, startling the dozing receptionist awake.
The cool air, carrying the smell of developing solution, wafted over. Zhan Mengyan's hand, clutching her paycheck, was still trembling slightly. The young photographer poked his head out of the darkroom, wiping his chemical-stained hands on his apron: "Hey, Mengyan, you're here! What kind of ID photo are you taking today?"
Zhan Mengyan's palms were sweaty as she clutched the banknotes, and the metal door frame reflected her sunken cheekbones and loose-fitting work pants.
The young photographer froze as he took the money; the back of the banknote still bore the distinctive sugar stains of a cannery. Clinging to his fingertips, it resembled the lies preserved by time in the darkroom, each wrinkle aching against her heart.
"What...what is this money for?" The young photographer's Adam's apple bobbed.
“Last time when I accompanied my sister to take her ID photos, you secretly took many photos of us sisters. Here is the cost of those photos. I gave you an IOU. Please take out the IOU.”
As Zhan Mengyan spoke, she reached out her hand to the young photographer.
“IOU? I remember now. After you wrote that IOU, I tore it up when you left the photo studio because I didn’t intend to keep the money. Those photos I took secretly were ‘free souvenirs.’ I had long forgotten about them. I made you write the IOU so you could take the photos without worry. Sigh, I meant well but did something wrong! I made you come all this way. If I had known you were so serious, I shouldn’t have taken those photos of you secretly… Keep the money to buy some food.”
The young photographer's voice grew hoarse as he spoke, noticing the girl's sunburnt nose and the frayed edges of her sleeves, still clung to by a few pieces of cannery metal. The red light from the darkroom shone through the crack in the door, casting blood-red patches on her sunken cheekbones, resembling the marks left by an assembly line machine.
“You have to take the money. The IOU is gone, so give me a receipt…” Zhan Mengyan’s voice was interrupted by a truck horn outside the door. The young photographer frantically pulled the camera down from the wall. In the viewfinder, Zhan Mengyan’s eyelashes trembled in the bright light, like butterfly wings about to break: “Let me take another picture of you. This one has a good angle, good lighting!”
The metal tripod crashed to the ground with a loud bang.
Zhan Mengyan took a half step back and bumped into the display case. The glass reflected the unopened photo album behind her—there lay the spring that should have belonged to her, now being gnawed away by sugar stains, leaving black holes, much like the holes worn into Zhan Mengyan's eyes by life.
"Stop taking pictures! Please, please stop taking pictures!" Zhan Mengyan's suddenly raised voice startled the swallows under the eaves. "If you take more pictures, I'll have to pay more! I really can't afford it!" The moment the banknotes were placed on the glass counter, the young photographer saw the fresh burn on Zhan Mengyan's hand, glowing red under the light. The wound was so red it was glaring, like light leaking through paper in a darkroom, burning his eyes. The young photographer suddenly bent down to pick up the tripod that had fallen, the metal leg clattering against the concrete floor. The impact made his eyes sting, and his whole body ached—he realized that guilt had weight. He didn't even have the strength to lift the camera; it pressed down on him, making him see his own hunched figure, slowly eroding Zhan Mengyan's straight spine.
The young photographer's hand hovered in mid-air, and the viewfinder finally captured the half-moldy steamed bun peeking out of Zhan Mengyan's cargo pants pocket as she turned around, silently telling the story of this summer's weariness and stubbornness.
Outside the window, the setting sun was painting the cannery's chimneys orange-red, while in the darkroom, the developing trays quietly settled a murky sense of guilt.