I found the camera by accident.

I was in the living room, digging through the big plastic bin where we keep our Christmas decorations, when something hard bumped my hand. It was an old white Polaroid camera, scratched and taped with thick masking tape. One word was written on it:

“Return.”

There wasn’t a name, so I figured my mom must’ve picked it up from a thrift shop years ago. I brought it to the couch and pressed the shutter, expecting nothing to happen.

But it whirred loudly and spit out a photo.

At first, the picture was just cloudy film. Then, slowly, it turned into an image of me—sitting on the couch in the same room, except in the picture someone was standing behind me.

Tall. Shadowy. Close.

I twisted around so fast I almost fell.

No one was there.

My heart was pounding, but the worst part was the weird feeling that the camera was… waiting for me. Like it wanted me to take another picture.

So I did. I lifted it and snapped a photo of the hallway.

This time, the picture developed into someone who looked like me—but older. Maybe in my twenties. She was holding the same Polaroid camera, smiling softly, like she knew something I didn’t.

At the bottom, in handwriting that definitely wasn’t mine, were the words:

“Don’t be afraid. Go upstairs.”

The hall light flicked on by itself.

I froze. But the whole house felt like it was gently pulling me forward—not scary, just… guiding.

So I followed the lit hallway to the stairs, and climbed slowly until I reached the top. Everything was quiet. Still. The attic door was cracked open, even though I swear it was shut that morning.

Swallowing hard, I pushed it open.

The attic wasn’t dark like usual. A soft golden light glowed inside, as if the sun were shining directly through the dusty window.

Right in the middle of the floor was a photo.

In it, I was about seven—sitting on our old porch beside my mom.

My mom, who died when I was eight.

Her face wasn’t blurry this time. She was smiling at me the way she always did, like she was memorizing my whole face. On the back of the photo, in her handwriting—her real handwriting—were the words:

“I’m still with you.”

My eyes stung. My hands shook. I lifted the camera and pressed the shutter one last time.

The final picture came out completely blank.

But then, faint words faded into view:

“Return it when you’re ready.”

The attic light dimmed. The warm feeling disappeared. And everything went back to normal.

I placed the camera gently back in the box.

I still don’t know where it came from or how it worked. But I know what it gave me—one more moment with someone I didn’t think I’d ever see again.

And someday… when I’m brave enough… I’ll return it.