The Lost Heirs
A canopy of verdant leaves looms above, curious beams of sunlight sift through the leaves as if trying to glimpse us, new visitors.
On the horizon, a Hades-black gate soars and lengthens in height. I spot a security booth in the left-hand corner in front of the entry, two armed guards manning the booth are outfitted in a burgundy uniform. Dad slows the car to a halt, right before the tall iron gates. Both bristle and unwelcoming with a row of wrought thorns on its head, except for the letter moulded into the centre. A.
Dad’s window slides down halfway and soon a man’s head appears behind it, a military-looking gun positioned across his chest, so large it occupies both hands.
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