Flash Fiction- plot

As Callie walked home from work, she glanced nervously over at her neighbor, Mr. Atalanta, expecting to see the accustomed camera lens poking through the curtains.  She knew it would be there – it had been for the last 3 years, ever since she’d turned 14.  She turned back, five steps later, and stared at the empty window.  It was empty.  She was alone, and there was no camera, no binoculars, no face to be seen.  This gave her pause.  Something to contemplate.  Looking around, she noticed the front door slightly ajar, another mysterious circumstance.  ‘Well,’ she said to herself, ‘A little turn around seems in order.’  Callie steeled herself to go inside.  Phone in hand, determination written all over her face, and a deep seeded anger just raring to explode, Callie pushed open the door.  Her phone dropped.   ‘The hell?’  She had to take all of this in, but her mind couldn’t process what she was seeing.  All around were pictures of her – that she expected – but they weren’t of her.  There were pictures of her coming home from school, pictures of her riding horses, pictures of her in Victorian clothing, pictures of her in places and situations she had never been – let alone dream of.  But they were all her.  It only took a moment, but Callie regained her composure.  She began to slowly move around the combined front entrance and living room with her phone camera turned on.  There wouldn’t be enough time to examine everything in as much detail as she would like now, but that sure didn’t mean that she wouldn’t be examining it later.  And who knew when Mr. Atalanta would return.  Out of all the pictures, the one that stood out the most was the picture placed in prominence above the mantle.  It was a simple one, one in which she was happy.  One, also where she was laughing by the sea shore with Mr. Atalanta, though he was much more vibrant and youthful in this photograph than she had ever seen him before.  He was almost handsome in the photograph, and Callie started to imagine what that man would have been like.  Once she realized that she had lost herself to that round of imagining, and a sound from the back of the house woke her from her reverie, she quickly and quietly bolted from the house before she was caught.  She didn’t stop running until she was in her room, away from the prying eyes of the neighbor who now was just a bit more intriguing.  Pulling out her phone, she began to go moment by moment, wondering who exactly was in the photographs.  One thought continued to nip at the back of her mind.  Could this possibly, really and truly, be her?  And if that was the case, who on earth was Mr. Atalanta?