“You keep leaving things,” she said back. “Makes a trail.”

Roy did not attend the opening. He left a poem under the radiator in the gallery instead, a small folded paper with two lines: “Keep photographing the ordinary. It’s the only time the world forgives itself.” Mina found it later and pinned it near the print.

He shrugged as if the trail had already been mapped. “We’re both compiling evidence,” he said. “Of what people forget about themselves.”