I am not a fan of camphor, that strong antiseptic sting that mothballs have. In this closet, its scent clings to my shell like neglect.

“I thought you got rid of it,” a muffled voice says.

The melodic timbre echoes whispers from that night, and I strain to listen.

“When was I supposed to do that?” Another voice says. “They had me under surveillance until yesterday.”

A sliver of light glints off my lens through the cracked-open door, and flashes of memories assail me. I recall the blinding sun and sand so pale it looked like snow. How calloused hands held me tight, firm but gentle while I followed children running along the beach. My insides whirl, bringing forth the image of move-in day. Navigating a lounge crowded with unpacked boxes while a slender figure stretches and yawns—like a cat in the sun.

Years pass, and my gears groan with age, yet I capture it all. The flared jeans giving way to denim that hugged every bulge, and natural tresses piled into sky-high hair. Snapshots from Christmas in festive paper hats. Lives fade, and the film alone preserves evidence of their existence.

I am the silent observer, capturing the truth by accident. I remember being thrown, rolling in the dark until I landed here with a thud.

Floorboards creak, and a brief nasal snort pulls me from the past.

“Relax, I retrieved it last night after they called off the dogs,” someone says. “By the time they think of looking here … it’ll be gone.”

I quiver in my casing while voices rise, objects crash to the floor and the pounding echoes off walls.

“Police … Open up, we’ve got a search warrant.”

Curses erupt, feet stomp, and the wardrobe fills with blinding light. My shutter snaps shut.