Liang Ning began organizing her father's phone by deleting more than twenty photographs of the same tap.
Halfway through, he took the phone back, enlarged each picture, and recovered three from Recently Deleted.
“Model number in this one.”
“And the other twenty?”
“Different angles.”
There were differences: a screw, a pipe connection, half a finger obscuring the lens. She returned it.
“You choose. I don't understand.”
He did. Then he asked which folder the survivors belonged in. Now she did not know either.
She had come home that weekend to make a retirement album. Paperwork finished, colleagues had shared a meal and a group photo. Too many people in that picture, she thought. His phone might hold everyday moments, enough for an album like the ones she designed for clients.
Instead she found other people's problems: a chipped socket plate, a removed lock, a damp mark on a wall. For every picture, he knew whose home it was and what needed another look.
Any of himself? Ask her mother.
“Plenty on her phone.”
“I want something natural.”
“Am I unnatural?”
He sat upright, hands on knees, as though attending her childhood parent-teacher meeting. She raised the phone.
“Wait. Wearing this?”
A pale patch marked his jacket where the employer's embroidered name had been removed. She said it did not matter. He changed into a blue shirt, buttoned tightly at the neck.
Afterward he glanced once and said it was good.
She disagreed. A broom intruded in the background; the clothes looked formal. She removed the broom in the image and softened the light.
He studied the result, then swiped back for the original.
“Doesn't look like me.”
“Better lighting.”
“Where's this?” He touched a faint mark below his eyebrow.
“The software handled it automatically.”
“No need.”
She disabled the effect. He noticed the broom in the original and laughed.
“Your mother will recognize our doorway immediately.”
Over lunch, her mother said he had been asking for a photo.
“I just took one.”
“He needs it for something.”
He moved his bowl and showed a community notice: residents with experience were invited to a small household-repair discussion.
“They want an introduction and a photo.”
“But you've retired.”
She heard the wrongness as soon as she said it. He did not get angry. He withdrew the phone.
“Just going to talk. Not every day.”
Of course he could, she said. Had he written the introduction? It was in Notes.
His previous role, work he had done, and a final sentence: “Don't take things apart if you don't understand them.” Nothing like the retirement reflection she imagined; exactly like something he would say from beneath a ladder.
“Shall I make it sound nicer?”
“Which bit sounds bad?”
She thought, then suggested leaving it for now.
Her album cover was already designed: “Slower Days.” After lunch she looked at those words for a long time. Beside her, he searched for his notebook and asked her mother where the measurements were. Hearing typing, he told her to carry on; he could find it himself.
She minimized the cover and asked what photograph he actually wanted.
“Face clear.”
“Anything else?”
“Not too big. So they can open the file.”
She laughed. “I meant where, and wearing what.”
“Downstairs. Brighter.”
A pale wall stood beside two electric scooters. She moved him left, then right, avoiding clutter. His hands returned to his trouser seams.
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
After a few shots he asked how long it would take. Every image seemed slightly wrong to her, though she could not explain how.
A neighbor came down and asked whether he had submitted the application.
“Taking the picture.”
“Put it in the group. I'll forward it.”
He immediately declined. Send it privately to the organizer first. “They should say what it's being used for.”
Liang Ning looked up. He knew the photograph he needed and where he did not want it sent. Nobody had asked him that earlier.
When the neighbor left, she lowered the phone.
“We won't use the edited one if you don't like it. I'll give you a few originals. You choose.”
He agreed, then asked what to do with his hands.
“How do you usually stand?”
He rested a hand on a railing, shook his head—looked like waiting for someone—then let it fall and laughed.
“Harder than work, getting photographed.”
She pressed the shutter without telling him to stand properly again.
Upstairs he enlarged the pictures: face, clothes, then the one where he was laughing.
“This works. Mouth's open, though.”
“You were speaking.”
“You can tell.”
He selected several and asked how to keep them separate from the taps. She showed him New Album. He named it “My Photos.” It held three pictures.
He sent his application himself and waited on the sofa. At the computer, she deleted “Slower Days” without immediately replacing it.
Her mother asked whether she was still making the album.
“Yes. But I'll ask which pictures he wants.”
Without looking up, he said, “Leave out the taps.”
She laughed and arranged the three pictures in his chosen order.
A notification sounded. The organizer accepted the photo and introduction. Thursday afternoon.
“Free Thursday?” he asked.
She opened her calendar, thinking he wanted company.
“Come and take a couple,” he said. “While I'm up there talking.”