June 6, 2016 by Felicia Hf
I stared at the old photograph. Its edges were worn and wrinkled; it had always been lying around on my desk, just waiting for me to finally go down to the shops and buy a frame. The stone house in the picture stirred old memories. It had been our house.
My best friend had found it when we were six, and since then, it had been our refuge. Empty and forlorn, the house only belonged to us.
I wondered whether it still existed. Whether someone had torn it down. Whether it had been blown up, like my best friend just had. The tears came streaming down my face then.
Friday Fictioneers, 3 June 2016