The red door is shut, the handle, polished steel. It begs to be opened.
I turn the handle to enter, brave. The room is cold. Two chairs stand in the middle of an Oriental rug. One is empty. A child, stares back. I have seen her face before. A forgotten photograph found inside a weathered cigar box.
A wild- eyed, willow wisp. Her moon- face stuns the dark. Emerald eyes glitter. A stubborn curl falls over one eye, as if to shield her from the world. Freckles dot the bridge of a tiny nose, claiming the familiar landscape of wide cheek bones.
My hand reaches forth.
It is as if she has waited an eternity to place her palm in mine.
Excerpt From A Scene