Damian found the clearer photograph on Thursday morning.
Not the original blurry one. A second image — different angle, slightly better light, still not conclusive but considerably less uncertain than the first. Someone at a different distance with a better phone. Posted to a social account at eleven the night before and already shared eight hundred times by the time Damian saw it at six forty-five in the morning, sitting on the edge of his bed with the curtains still closed.
He looked at it for a long time.
His face was visible in this one.
Not clearly. Not undeniably. But visible enough that someone who knew him would know. The particular angle of his jaw. The way he held his shoulders. The collar turned up against the evening cold. Small things. Specific things. The kind of details that belonged to a person rather than a silhouette.
He put the phone down.
Went to the kitchen.
Made tea.
