It was a Tuesday night and I was lying on my bedroom floor scrolling through 2019. My grandma had passed that morning. My mom asked for one photo. Just one. The one from her birthday where she was wearing the green sari and laughing at something my cousin said. I knew it existed. I had taken it. I remembered the exact frame. I started at the top of the camera roll and worked backwards. 12,000 photos. Most of them screenshots. Hundreds of identical bursts of the same dog, the same plate of food, the same train window. A photo of a bus ticket I needed for a refund six months ago. Three accidental shots of my pocket. A photo I took of someone's wifi password. The same view from my apartment window, taken on 47 different mornings. By 2 AM I had scrolled to early 2020. Still nothing. My eyes were burning. My thumb was sore. I started crying, partly because I missed her, partly because of the absurdity of being unable to find one photo in a phone that supposedly remembered everything.…