Viggo unlocked the door with a shaky hand. He made his way to the couch, jacket still on, camera still in hand and collapsed.’

All of the experiences he had managed to cram into his life and nothing had prepared him for what he had just seen. Or heard. The visual was awful but the screams, the pleas for help were just about unbearable.

He sat in a daze until he couldn’t stand it. He had to do something, to keep his hands busy. Hooking up the camera to his computer, he uploaded the nw photos. Immediately, he was hit with another wave as he saw the images of that beautiful old building in flames fill his screen.

He had wanted to help but he wasn’t a trained fire fighter. He wanted to leave but he was blocked in. So Viggo did the only thing he knew how to do. He raised his camera to his eye and recorded the scene. It was natural, like an extension of himself.

Now he sat before the fiery images on the screen. He’d never be able to explain just why he did it but he chose one of the images and imported a copy into photoshop. He detached himself from what he was looking at and just made it a digital project. He zoomed in on one section of the once majestic old building and started removing the flames, restoring the beautiful brickwork underneath.

* * *

Viggo stretched and surveyed the two images. On the left, the fiery hell that was reality. On the right, his ‘corrected’ version. He sighed. It hadn’t really helped but at least it had kept him busy. That was something.

He poured a generous shot of whiskey and turned on the news. Oddly, there was no mention of the fire that had probably taken countless lives and destroyed one of the cities great landmarks.

Pouring another shot, he returned to the two images, before and after, still up on the screen. He froze. They were identical, both simply photos of a grand old building. No fire, no damage. Puzzled, he opened the other shots. None showed a fire or emergency of any kind. He drained his glass and poured another.

* * *

He had checked his camera and computer. Checked with the newspapers, the police and the fire department. The fire he had witnessed and photographed never happened. He drove by the building. Nothing, other than the normal wear and tear of an aging structure.

Now he was home, camera ready to check his grasp on reality. Looking around for a subject, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His scar? No. He’d grown to love that imperfection. What if he was right? He grunted. How could he be right? It just wasn’t possible. Just the same, possible or not, not his scar.

That old couch would do nicely for this experiment. He’d been meaning to get that upholstery repaired for years. He shot the photo, uploaded it, copied it to photoshop and began.

When he’d finished, he checked the couch. No change. Well, of course there wasn’t! What had he been thinking? Relieved, he went back to quit out of photoshop. When he did, it asked if he’d like to save his work. Clicking okay, he walked away.

It was later that he walked by the couch and noticed the change. It had worked, but not until he had saved the work.

This was amazing. He wished he had someone to share it with who wouldn’t laugh at the silliness of the whole idea. However, Henry was away at school and would only have said, “Oh, come on, Dad!” had he been there, anyway. There was no one.

He needed another test. Something big. He sat down, still freaked, but a little excited now. He went through the photos he’d taken recently. He rejected shot after shot, all the time thinking that he must be crazy. He must have finally cracked from the pressure of trying to fit so much into one life. Then he saw it. It was perfect.

A while back, he had attended the exhibit of The Titanic, finally raised from its watery grave. Here was his test where he would finally prove to himself that he was out of his mind. On a holiday from reality. He copied one of the best shots into photoshop and went to work.

He worked long into the night. He was like a man possessed but he kept going and somewhere around dawn he hit save and surveyed his work. It was good work. Did it do anything? He was so tired. He put his head down on his arms for a few minutes just to wait for his second wind. He was asleep in seconds.

* * *

Viggo awoke to a soft squeeze on his shoulder and the smell of fresh coffee.

“Wake up, honey. Did you sleep at that computer all night? I swear, even your downtime is full, isn’t it?”

Viggo opened his eyes, slowly raising his head. Everything was different. His cluttered room was neat and alive with plants and colour. The furnishings, the paint, the carpet ... all were different.

He got up and walked around. There were pictures he’d never seen. Wedding pictures of Viggo and the woman who stood before him, concern on her face. Pictures of Henry were still there (he said a silent prayer at that) but there were others. The one he was drawn to was a very old black and white photo of a young couple on the deck of a ship. On the Titanic!

Viggo’s wife glanced at the screen and smiled.

“Such a beautiful ship, wasn’t it? I always remember my grandparents telling me stories of their voyage on the Titanic. Even as steerage passengers, it was more luxurious than any other ship of that time.”

She returned her gaze to Viggo.

“Honey, are you sure you’re okay?”

Was he? Or had he totally left behind any concept of reality? Was it possible that he’d never found his soulmate because her ancestors had perished on the Titanic ... and had he just changed all that?

Maybe this was all just a glorious dream. Should he fight it or enjoy it?

As Viggo looked at his wife, a warm smile grew across his face and he knew. He crossed the short distance between them, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.