There once was a man who loved life the way a child loves light — freely, without thought. His name was Joe Maisano, and he carried his camera like most carry a wallet: always near, always ready. He photographed everything — alley cats on brick stoops, coffee steam in winter, strangers laughing on porches. Life fascinated him in all its small and disposable moments.

He called his photos “Still Beating”.

⚓ One Night at the Docks

That night was no different — or so it seemed.

He’d gone wandering, camera slung, chasing a dying orange sky down to the old Ashvale docks — where the water smells like rust, and the lights hum just a little too loud.

He wasn’t looking for trouble.

Just shadows. Just silence. Just the kind of quiet no one else cared to notice.

But further down the dock, under a single flickering lamp...

He saw two men.

And a third — bound at the hands and feet, pleading.

Joe, breath hitched, ducked behind a stack of old crab traps.

And like muscle memory, he began to snap photos.

Click.

Click.

Click.

He watched as the man was struck in the temple with something heavy — the sound was wet.

Then…

Splash.

A body slumped sideways into the river.

No screaming. Just bubbles. Then nothing.

🩸 A Witness in the Dark