The Apartment That Time Forgot
The air inside was cold and still, as though the apartment itself had been holding its breath.
Dust motes drifted through the sunlight leaking from the curtains. Every piece of furniture looked carefully placed, untouched — an old armchair by the window, a lace tablecloth on the dining table, porcelain cups that seemed too delicate to ever use.
And then, something caught my eye.
The walls.
They were covered — every inch of them — with framed drawings.
Childlike drawings.
Bright colors. Uneven lines. Stick figures with smiling faces.
It took only a moment for my heart to stop.
I knew those drawings.
They were mine.
