It's a progressive story; one we're writing together. Thus far...
She opened the door with anticipation more than strength; she'd been looking forward to this all week. Placing her hand over her middle in a futile attempt to still her anxious stomach, she muttered, "Butterflies, eh, feel more like raging ants."
Claire stood at the end of the dull hallway, with two long braids stretching down to her waist and a small, pale hand clutching his. Their eyes met over her little head, his cold and calculating, hers, wide and a little scared. Claire's musical little voice broke the contact.
"Are you sure we're ready for this, Jason?"
Jason's head slowly turned away from her. Claire saw his shoulders raise as he took a deep breath. She knew what that meant, she had seen it before.
So unlike her Dad, Jason was going to let her take the lead again.
The door swung away from Claire's hand, as though grabbed from the other side. The fragrance of lavender and old age filled their heads and quickened their pulses. It was the last time they'd see home. At least home as they'd ever remember it to be.
Gram sat on the davenport, elegant as ever, but moved her hand slowly as she pointed to the keepsake box high the the top of the buffet. "It's time you knew the truth before it's too late," she rasped.
Thanks to our contributors! (To get the details, and see who's responsible for what part, see this post and its comments.)
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