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Empty Pockets

My dad was never a chatty person, so most of our conversations came across as anecdotes.

He is an architect, and works towards the conservation of world heritage sites. At one point, he was in Romania, and before the convention, he decided to go around and see the beautiful buildings and houses.

The hotel warned him about how brazen the thieves were in Romania, so he tucked his wallet into his right front pocket, hung his DSLR around his neck, and slipped his backup camera into his left front pocket.

He opened the doors and stepped out into the street. He was immediately greeted by a rush of crisp morning air, and the first rays of  sunshine. The city was already awake, its inhabitants bustling about on the cobblestone streets. He stopped to take it all in, this fleeting moment of acquaintance with a new friend.

There was a tug on his shirt, at his back, to his left. He looked absently behind him, and noticed that the backup camera was gone. Before any confusion could be registered, there was an inexplicable lifting of a burden from his shoulders. As he stood straight, he realised the DSLR was gone. He reached for his wallet to secure it, but it, too, had vanished.

Hands in empty pockets, my dad turned resignedly and walked back into the hotel.