“What can you tell me about this picture?” the brunette asked the man behind the counter of the antique shop.

He took the tintype photograph and tilted it toward the light. The faded image had a brownish cast to it. Three people. Man, woman, and baby with a shade tree in the background.

The serious face man sported a mustache and short goatee, typical of the era’s male facial hair. He wore a low crowned hat and mid-thigh coat, which appeared to match his shortfall trousers.

The young woman, presumedly the man’s wife, wore a linen and lace cap, but no bonnet. The sleeves of her crinoline dress were elbow length with lace edging. The baby in her arms, toothless grin on its face, stared into the camera. Clothed in a long baptismal type gown with matching cap, its gender was undeterminable.

The shop owner looked up. His gray eyes pierced the brunette. “This is circa Civil War or shortly thereafter. Not many of these pictures left. Most have faded to a blank brown with barely a ghostly image remaining. This tintype is relatively clear. Must have been kept away from sunlight.”

“It was wrapped in a square of black linen,” she said, taking the cloth from her oversized shoulder bag and placing it on the counter. The black lace-edged cloth was creased in a tic-tac-toe pattern from years of enfolding the picture.

“I bought a cedar chest at an estate sale last year. I didn’t bother to look inside a the time because … well, that’s neither here nor there,” she ended on a disgusted huff.

The shop owner used one finger to slide the black linen square to his side of the counter, then bent down, and sniffed. The cloth exuded the aromatic scent of cedar.

Standing straight again, he raised his eyes to the woman. “This could be a mourning cloth used to lovingly preserve the image of someone who died. Could have been any one of them or all three. Disease sometimes did that to families back then.”

“How awful,” she murmured and then grimaced. “I wanted to return it to the people I bought the cedar chest from, but they sold the house. It was an old farmstead. It was torn down and now there’s an apartment complex on the land.”

“That’s too bad.” Picking up the tintype by the edge with thumb and forefinger, the shop owner placed it on the black linen, carefully refolded the cloth, and slid it toward the woman.

His eyes met hers again. The space between them seemed to vibrate. The past and present shifted. They overlaid each other, then blended into the promise of a new future. One with a happier ending.