Twenty Frames

There are twenty photographs on my screen.

In every one of them, Wheal Edward is empty.

I know because I have searched them properly—not glanced, not casually zoomed in and satisfied myself that nothing obvious is standing beside the engine house. I have examined every doorway, every broken wall and every patch of darkness along the path.

Nothing changes between the frames.

Nothing emerges from the ruins.

Nobody is there.

That should make me feel better.

It doesn’t.