In the summer of 2019, I spent a week at my grandmother's house on Bayou Tasse, helping her sort through boxes in the attic. She'd lived there sixty years, and the dust smelled of camphor and old paper. I found a photograph in a cedar chest—a tintype of a woman in a high-collared dress, standing at the edge of the bayou. The water behind her was wrong. It looked like it had been painted over, like someone had tried to erase something. I didn't think much of it until I set it on the nightstand. The first night, the woman's eyes were closed. The second night, they were open. The third night, her hand was raised, as if she was reaching toward the camera. I called my grandmother. She told me that woman was her mother's sister, who had drowned in the bayou in 1912. She also told me no one had ever seen the photograph before. I left the house the next morning. I didn't bring the photograph with me. But sometimes, late at night, I check my phone gallery. And I wonder why there's a picture of a woman with her hand pressed against the glass.

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