It was an overcast early spring day 15 years ago, and the trees had just sprouted. As a young police reporter, I drove to the scene of a car accident. According to the broadcaster, an elderly man driving a truck backing up in front of his house accidentally ran over his young granddaughter, fatally wounding her.

I was parked next to a line of police cars when I saw a short, white-bearded man in cotton overalls standing near a truck. Several cameras were pointed at him, and reporters were sticking their microphones in front of him. He looked completely panicked, stammering in response to reporters' questions, often moving his lips and blinking his eyes but not saying a word.

After a while, the reporters gave up and followed the police into a small white house. I still remember the old man looking down in despair in the driveway, where the children had been. Next to the house was a new flower bed and a pile of dark planting soil.

"I want to back the car up there and put good soil on the ground," he told me, though I didn't ask him anything. "I didn't even know she was outside the door." His hand reached out in the direction of the flowerbed, then dropped. He fell into remorse, and I, like other dedicated reporters, went into the house to see if anyone could provide a few recent photos of the children in trouble.

After a few minutes, I carried a cute photo of the child in my pocket that could be displayed in the studio and headed to the kitchen, where the police said the child's body was temporarily parked.

I came with a big, versatile camera, a camera familiar to journalists. The family, police officers, journalists and photographers had all retreated from the house and stood in the yard. I went into the kitchen and saw a plastic veneer table with the child's small body lying on it, wrapped in a clean white sheet. The child's grandfather sat in a chair at the table, oblivious to my presence, just looking at the body under the white cloth.

The room was so quiet that I could only hear the clock ringing. At that moment, I saw the grandfather slowly leaning forward, extending an arm, hugging the small body on the table, and then pressing his face against the white cloth, motionless.

In that moment of silence, knowing it was time for an award-winning journalistic photograph, I set the aperture, set the focus, set the flash, raised my camera and chose the angle.

Every detail of the scene was perfect: the grandfather in plain overalls, his white hair gleaming against the light, the child covered in white sheets, the wall next to the window hung two commemorative plates of the World's Fair, all of which set off a dignified atmosphere in the simply furnished room. From inside, the police could be seen outside checking the back tires of the hit truck, and the child's mother and father stood cuddled next to each other.

I don't know how long I stood in the room, but I couldn't press the shutter in my hand. I knew very well that this photo would have a shocking effect when it was taken, and the professional consciousness told me to take it. But I could not bear to let the flash disturb the poor old man's mourning.

After a long time, I still put down my camera and quietly walked out of the house, wondering if I was still qualified to be a journalist. Of course, I never told my journal editors or fellow journalists that I had missed an opportunity to take a great news photo.

We see people every day on TV news and in newspapers in situations of extreme grief and despair, and sometimes when I look at the news, I am reminded of the time I gave up taking pictures.

To this day, I still believe I did the right thing.