"Every photograph is a gentle tyranny over a vanished moment." The photographer could freeze that memory with absolute subjectivity, and when we grew weak enough to choose forgetting, it would still bear our sins for us.
Gao Ming stepped into the Darkroom. The light outside stopped at his shadow.
On the table before him lay a thermometer, several beakers, a measuring cylinder, and clips designed to drain water from film. Thin cords hung overhead, and farther away, many photographs covered the wall.
"I think this is called a developing tank." Li Sansi's memories danced at Gao Ming's fingertips. He carefully opened the developing tank, adjusted its central spindle and film reel, poured in developer, stop bath, and fixer, then gently rocked it. A photograph from the past seemed to appear before his eyes.
"There aren't any memories of this room in Li Sansi's mind, or of the neighbors and the living people around him. Were all those forgotten days preserved in photographs?"
Walking up to the wall the light could not reach, Gao Ming silently studied every person in the photographs. It was as though he were looking through a mirror called the past at an unfamiliar version of himself—no, an unfamiliar Li Sansi.
At the very bottom of all the photographs was a silent, old-fashioned middle-aged man. He wore a dark gray suit, and his face was as dull as the law book in his hands.
Behind the man stood a thin, frail boy. His hair was long, and he had received little care or discipline. Introverted and sensitive, he clutched his father's trouser leg and hid behind him. Only with the sense of safety his father provided did he dare to timidly peek out at the camera.
Unlike his father, the boy had curiosity in his eyes. He