When Cid had handed him the large, black, leather-bound photo album, its pages glossy and clear and empty, and a brand new camera, Vincent had been more confused than he had ever been around the blonde pilot. At the time, it had seemed to him to be one of the more pointless things the pilot had given him during the time together - although he would never voice such an opinion, for Cid's sake - and he had stashed it away at the top of his closet, never once bothering to give it a second thought.
When the topic of the future came up several months later, during one of their awkward, silent dinners that Vincent cooked and Cid ate without so much as a word, Vincent suddenly realized exactly why he had been given that photo album. The words never left either of their mouths, but they understood exactly what it meant: Cid wouldn't be around forever. It was his way of planting a little bit of himself for Vincent to remember.
From that point on, Vincent had a camera strapped to him as loyally as he had Cerberus in his possession. He was horrible at handling the thing, and the pictures rarely came out as more than a Cid-shaped, black silhouette against whatever background he was standing before, but Vincent never once got rid of them. Each one found its way into the album, slipped in carefully and with perfect precision.
Over time, the photos became a little bit clearer - the album was thick and heavy with memory, and the photos showed faces and places, little things of what Vincent was now to remind him of later, were he to lose himself again.
The first time he reviewed his photos was the day after Cid's funeral. The pages were a little less glossy now, and the earlier pictures from years before were faded and water stained around the edges, but it was still there, each and every detail and all of the memories that they brought.
He was able to smile when he looked back on those pictures, and it stayed with him at all times, no matter where he moved or what he did - a tiny piece of himself that would never fade or change.