HIS WILLING TOY
I ran my fingers over a crate, the wood rough under my touch, before moving in deeper, looking for something, anything, that might tell me more.
Why was this place locked?
A dusty box sat in the corner, half hidden under a tarp. I pulled it out, coughing as dust flew up, and opened it slowly.
Inside were old photos with edges that were already curling. I picked one up. A young Enzo stared back, maybe ten years old, a wide grin splitting his face. He stood between his parents: his mother’s warm smile., her hand resting sweetly on his shoulder; and his father’s cold eyes, sharp, like he could cut through you.
Bab Populer