The Last Frame

Fourteen years have passed, but the memory of that night remains as sharp as a shard of glass. I was nine, a third-grader at a small school in Quezon City, when the storm named Kadiang swept through the city with a fury that turned streets into rivers. The announcement of class suspension came late, and the rain hammered the windows like a thousand fists. My father, a government photographer based in an old building along Roxas Boulevard, arrived an hour later, his car sputtering through the flooded avenues. We attempted to head home to our apartment in Mandaluyong, but the main roads were impassable. The bus terminals were clogged with stranded commuters, and even the jeepneys had vanished. My father, ever pragmatic, decided we would wait out the storm in his office, which he said was safe and dry.

We drove along the boulevard, the sea churning angrily against the seawall, sending sprays of saltwater that mixed with the rain. The building was a decrepit structure, a relic of the American colonial era, with high ceilings and long corridors that smelled of dust and old paper. The office was on the third floor, a cramped space filled with filing cabinets, a large wooden desk, and walls lined with shelves of photographic equipment and boxes of negatives. My father set up a small camp for me on a cot in the corner, using his jacket as a blanket. He told me to sleep, but I was restless. The storm outside howled, and the building creaked and groaned like a living thing.

I must have drifted off, because when I woke, the room was dark except for a single desk lamp casting a sickly yellow glow. My father was not there. The clock on the wall showed past midnight. The rain had softened to a steady patter, but the wind still rattled the window frames. I called out, but my voice was swallowed by the silence. Then I noticed something odd: a camera on a tripod stood in the corner, pointed directly at me. It was an old Hasselblad, the kind my father used for studio shoots. The red light on its flash unit was blinking, as if it had just been used. I felt a chill run down my spine.

I got up and walked toward the camera, drawn by an inexplicable curiosity. As I approached, I saw a piece of paper taped to the tripod, with my father’s handwriting scrawled across it: ‘Don’t look at the viewfinder.’ A shiver ran through me, but I couldn’t resist. I pressed my eye to the viewfinder, expecting to see a darkened room, but instead, I saw a scene that was completely different. The viewfinder showed a room that was not the office, but a hospital corridor. The walls were pale green, and the lights buzzed overhead. There was a gurney being wheeled by two doctors in masks, and on the gurney lay a body covered with a white sheet. The sheet was tucked tightly around the face, which was pale and still. I recognized the face: it was my own.

I pulled back, gasping, and the image vanished from the viewfinder. Now it showed the office again, my father’s empty chair, the rain-streaked window. But the sheet in the viewfinder had been an exact replica of my face, and I felt a profound dread settle in my stomach. I ran to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked from the outside. I pounded on the wood, calling for my father, but only the echo of my voice came back. I turned back to the camera, and the red light blinked again, as if it had taken another shot. I didn’t want to look, but I was compelled. The viewfinder now showed a different scene: a family in a graveyard, standing before a tombstone. I saw my mother, her face obscured by a black veil, holding a baby. I saw a teenage girl who looked like my sister, but I had no sister in my childhood. And I saw a man standing apart, his face blurred, but I knew it was my father.

I staggered back, knocking over the tripod, and the camera clattered to the floor. The red light went out. I gathered my courage and picked up the camera, turning it over in my hands. The film back was open, and the roll of film was exposed to the air, ruined. I let it drop and ran to the window, hoping to see some sign of life outside. The street below was empty, the streetlights flickering. But as I stared, I saw a figure standing under one of the lights, looking up at the building. It was a person, but their face was in shadow. They raised a hand, and in it, they held a camera with a large flash, like the ones in old movies. The flash exploded with a blinding light, and in that instant, I saw the figure’s face: it was mine, older, with cold eyes.

I screamed and fell back, covering my eyes. When I opened them, the room was filled with a pale light. My father was standing over me, shaking my shoulder. ‘Wake up, anak. The storm is over. Let’s go home.’ I looked around, and the camera was gone. The chair was empty, and the cot was where I had left it. I must have dreamt it all. But as we left, I noticed a Polaroid photograph lying on the floor near the door. I bent down and picked it up. It was a picture of a hospital corridor, with a gurney and a body, the face blurred. On the back, in my father’s handwriting, was a date: October 21, 1997. That was today.

We never spoke of that night. My father retired from his government job a year later, and we moved to a different city. But every time I see a camera, I remember that viewfinder and the image of my own face. And I know that somewhere in that old building, on that night, a photograph was taken that I will never see. I can only wonder what else that camera captured, and whether one day, I will appear in a picture I never posed for.