Pixels at Dawn

Four in the morning in New York, like an ink-soaked sponge, damp, cold, and heavy. The halos of streetlights diffused in the thin mist, barely outlining a long, winding queue snaking alongside Fifth Avenue. It wasn't a line for relief supplies, nor for some celebrity autograph session, but to snag a "Hummingbird" brand camera from faraway China.

Jamie rubbed his stiff, frozen hands, huddled in his thin jacket like a chestnut dropped into an ice hole. He was somewhere in the middle-back of the line, a sea of heads in front, and behind him too. People seemed like believers summoned by some mysterious force, their faces a mixture of exhaustion, anticipation, and an almost fanatical gleam. Who would have thought? A Chinese camera making New Yorkers, accustomed to grand spectacles, willingly stand in the biting wind for hours, even more than ten?

Jamie wasn't a photography enthusiast. He knew nothing about the "Hummingbird's" so-called "revolutionary retro filters" or "soul-capturing pixels." His purpose was simple, and very New York: speculation. Social media said this gadget was hard to get, and could be resold for three to five times the price. For Jamie, whose pockets were practically empty, this was like manna from heaven, even if getting it meant freezing half to death.

"Young man, are you also fascinated by the 'Hummingbird'?" came a gentle voice from beside him.

Jamie turned his head. It was a well-dressed elderly woman with white hair, her scarf wrapped tightly, revealing only a pair of eyes that, though wrinkled, were still clear. She didn't look like the type to queue overnight for a trendy electronic gadget.

"Er, I suppose so, Ma'am," Jamie mumbled, mentally calculating how to phrase things so as not to sound too mercenary. "I hear it's quite special."

"Oh, yes, very special," the old woman smiled, her gaze drifting into the distance as if recalling something. "My husband used to be a photographer, back in the film era, of course. He always said that good photographs capture the warmth of time. This 'Hummingbird,' they say its colors are particularly like the results from the old Kodak film my husband loved to use back then... carrying a kind of... hmm, a kind of scent of bygone sunlight."

Jamie paused. He had assumed the people in line were either trendy cool kids or scalper-wannabes like himself; he hadn't expected such a pure reason.

"You're here for... nostalgia?"

"You could say that," the old woman sighed softly. "My husband passed away last year. We have many old photos he took at home, but I always feel it's not enough. I want to use this camera, go to the places we used to frequent, and take some new pictures, as if... as if he were still looking at the world through his eyes." Her voice choked up slightly but quickly regained composure. "Of course, I know it's silly. How could a camera possibly replace a person?"

Jamie said nothing, just silently pulled his scarf up a little higher, as if trying to fend off not just the cold wind, but also a strange emotion welling up inside him. He looked at the old woman, then at the people around them with their feverish eyes, discussing resale prices. Suddenly, the few hundred dollars he had ready felt heavy in his pocket.

Time crawled like a snail. The sky turned from inky black to fish-belly white, then gradually tinged with rose. The queue finally began to move slowly, accompanied by waves of suppressed commotion. The shop door opened, letting in only a few people at a time.

"Limited stock! One per person!" The shop assistant's voice cut through the crowd like a stone dropped into a pond, sending out larger ripples.

The line grew shorter, and Jamie's heart beat faster. He counted the people ahead, feeling he should be able to get one. The old woman beside him also seemed nervous, constantly craning her neck and standing on tiptoe to look ahead.

Finally, it was their group's turn. Jamie practically rushed into the warm store. Under the dazzling lights, the small, exquisite "Hummingbird" cameras were displayed in the counter, gleaming enticingly.

"I'll take one!" Jamie slapped the money on the counter, almost snatching the boxed camera.

Just as he turned to leave, he saw the old woman standing nearby, crestfallen. The assistant was saying apologetically to her, "I'm sorry, Ma'am, the customer just before you... We just sold the last one..."

The old woman's shoulders slumped. The light in her eyes instantly went out, like a candle blown out by the wind. Head bowed, she turned silently, her white hair seeming particularly stark under the lights.

Jamie's heart felt like something had suddenly clenched it. He looked at the camera box in his hand, the square object carrying his "get rich quick" dream, which now felt like a branding iron. He remembered the old woman's words about the "scent of bygone sunlight," remembered the longing for her husband in her eyes.

He took a deep breath and caught up to the old woman in a few steps.

"Ma'am, please wait."

The old woman turned back, a polite question on her face.

"This..." Jamie thrust the camera box into her hands, stammering a bit, "I... I suddenly changed my mind. A friend asked me to pick one up for him, but he just texted saying he doesn't want it anymore. You... if you wouldn't mind taking it..."

The old woman looked at him in surprise, then at the camera in her hands, the light returning to her eyes. Her mouth opened as if to say something, but in the end, she just gripped Jamie's hand tightly.

"Thank you, young man. Really... thank you so much." Her voice was filled with suppressed excitement and gratitude, her eyes seeming slightly moist.

"It's nothing," Jamie avoided her gaze, speaking quickly. "Please, take care of it."

He turned, pushed his way out of the crowd, and stepped back onto the cold street. His pockets were empty, the expected profit vanished into thin air, but he didn't feel too much dismay. Dawn had now fully bathed the streets, plating the cold buildings with a warm golden layer. He breathed out a puff of white vapor, watching it dissipate in the crisp air. Suddenly, he felt that this New York morning also seemed to hold a bit more of that "scent of bygone sunlight."

He walked along the long street, his step much lighter than before. Reaching the corner, he happened to glance back. He saw the old woman standing at the entrance of a second-hand luxury goods store, carefully handing the brand-new "Hummingbird" camera to a well-dressed man with shrewd eyes. The man quickly inspected it and handed her a thick wad of cash. The old woman took the money, counted it expertly, a satisfied smile, completely different from before, spreading across her face. Then she turned and briskly merged into the bustling crowd.

Jamie stood rooted to the spot, his mouth agape. He felt the four a.m. chill seep back into his jacket; this time, it was a bone-deep cold, from the inside out. The New York sun was still brilliant, but it seemed unable to reach into his empty heart and pockets.