Portraits of the Unremembered

by Whit Carroway

He spent his afternoons in dusty antique stores, thumbing through yellowed bins of century-old portraits, transfixed by the solemn gazes of women who never smiled. Their eyes, caught in silver gelatin, spoke to him in a language more intimate than anything spoken aloud. He knew their names—when written on the back—and imagined the rest. Alma, who played the violin in 1892; Maeve, who might’ve lit the gas lamps at dusk. Modern women, with their scrolling and selfies, felt like ghosts in reverse. His apartment became a museum of their forgotten faces, framed in pewter and polished oak, their silence the only conversation he needed.

6S

Whit Carroway resides in a creaky apartment above a used bookstore.