i don’t know who you are.
i don’t know why i picked you up.
i don’t know why i paid 1TL for you, and i why i keep you in a pile of other found photos.
i will not write a story about you. i will not discuss the knee-high socks, the chair, the round faces, the white collars, the painted nails, the time on the watch. i will not tell you to take a look at the vase and the silk flowers, the porcelain pieces, the encyclopedias, the leather strap around the ankle, the 1955 inscribed in black ink in the top right corner. i will not speculate about the father, so clearly missing, and i will not mention the black dress and the wedding ring.