Souvenir
Souvenir
Word count: 180
Rating: G
Timeline: Future-fic
Characters: Sayid Jarrah, Shannon Rutherford
Disclaimer: This is a fictional, nonprofit work for entertainment purpose only. The copyright in the TV show LOST and its components is owned by "American Broadcast Companies, Inc.", which reserves all rights therein.
Author’s notes: Part of Lost Connections universe.
An year had passed and he kept going there. Every Sunday morning he would sit outside her door - the door that once belonged to the Rutherford family - and he would wait.
Nobody would ever come in, or out.
One day the police showed up and took him away. The following week he would be there again, sitting on the doorstep.
He was always decently dressed, his long dark curls contained by a strap of fabric, his beard impeccably drawn on his jaw. In the beginning he would take a newspaper with him. Then, with time, he forgot the paper and simply sat there from dawn to dusk.
Until the day a distressed voice came out of the intercom. “What do you want”, it said.
“You must be Ms. Carlyle.” He had never found a single real emotion on the gossip columns. False smiles would never be enough, he thought.
“Say how much. No matter how much. I will give you. Say what you want and go away.”
He took a deep, sad, relieved breath.
“All I want is a photograph.”
Word count: 180
Rating: G
Timeline: Future-fic
Characters: Sayid Jarrah, Shannon Rutherford
Disclaimer: This is a fictional, nonprofit work for entertainment purpose only. The copyright in the TV show LOST and its components is owned by "American Broadcast Companies, Inc.", which reserves all rights therein.
Author’s notes: Part of Lost Connections universe.
An year had passed and he kept going there. Every Sunday morning he would sit outside her door - the door that once belonged to the Rutherford family - and he would wait.
Nobody would ever come in, or out.
One day the police showed up and took him away. The following week he would be there again, sitting on the doorstep.
He was always decently dressed, his long dark curls contained by a strap of fabric, his beard impeccably drawn on his jaw. In the beginning he would take a newspaper with him. Then, with time, he forgot the paper and simply sat there from dawn to dusk.
Until the day a distressed voice came out of the intercom. “What do you want”, it said.
“You must be Ms. Carlyle.” He had never found a single real emotion on the gossip columns. False smiles would never be enough, he thought.
“Say how much. No matter how much. I will give you. Say what you want and go away.”
He took a deep, sad, relieved breath.
“All I want is a photograph.”