Somewhere, in the ashes of Kara's bombed-out apartment, were the remains of a photograph. It had already been torn when Kara stole it from her mother's dresser, along with money and a packet of smokes, when she was eleven; ripped down one side to try and erase the man who had been standing next to Kara with his hand on her shoulder. Only the hand remained, big and worn and friendly-looking, even in the grainy snapshot.
Kara was about two in that picture, she thought, although she didn't remember the circumstances of the photo at all. Socrata was standing on her other side, and behind her was a tall, gleaming scaffold of a tower, topped with a sign whose letters Kara couldn't make out. An early family vacation, maybe, before things between her parents had gone completely to hell.
The thing that had piqued her interest was not the tower, or the uncharacteristic smile on her mother's face, but the baby in Socrata's arms, her pale superfine hair tossed by the wind (Were they in the mountains somewhere? At the ocean?) and a look of
( ... )
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Kara was about two in that picture, she thought, although she didn't remember the circumstances of the photo at all. Socrata was standing on her other side, and behind her was a tall, gleaming scaffold of a tower, topped with a sign whose letters Kara couldn't make out. An early family vacation, maybe, before things between her parents had gone completely to hell.
The thing that had piqued her interest was not the tower, or the uncharacteristic smile on her mother's face, but the baby in Socrata's arms, her pale superfine hair tossed by the wind (Were they in the mountains somewhere? At the ocean?) and a look of ( ... )
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