An Extra Portrait

After my grandmother passed away, my family was cleaning out her room and found a locked wooden box. My dad pried it open, and inside were over a dozen black and white photos of my grandmother when she was young. Strangely, there was an unfamiliar boy in every single picture. The boy stood behind my grandmother, wearing the same clothes, but his face became clearer in each successive photo. My mom said, "Maybe he was a neighbor from long ago." My dad flipped to the last photo and suddenly went silent. It was a family portrait: a young grandmother, grandfather, father, and the unfamiliar boy. The boy stood next to my father, his hand on his shoulder. And on the back of that photo was the date it was taken: thirty years ago. My dad stared at the photo for a long time before quietly saying, "We never took a picture like this when I was a kid." That night, I couldn't sleep and secretly went to the living room. The wooden box was closed again, though I didn't know when. I lifted the lid, and found a new color photo inside. In the picture, my parents were sitting on the sofa, and I was standing between them. And behind me, the unfamiliar boy was smiling, his hand resting on my shoulder. The back of the photo read tomorrow's date.