It was your idea to visit the flea market that Sunday. The air buzzed with life colors, smells, voices all blending into a symphony of the ordinary made magical. You led me by the hand, stopping every few steps to marvel at the world.
You found an old camera dusty, worn, but still beautiful.
"It's imperfect," you said, holding it up to the light. "But it still sees beauty. Kind of like us."
We bought it. Took photos all afternoon moments captured in frames, imperfect and true. Back home, we pinned them up on the wall. Our gallery of simplicity. A living mural of memories not polished, but pure.