Wren
Lined along the walls are pictures. Pictures of my dad, of me, of Ray…of my mom that left when I was barely five.
They’re so many, taken from different angles on different days…so many years ago.
My steps falter the closer I walk toward the pictures.
Squinting, I’m able to make out my name beneath my pictures including Ray’s and my dad’s. A large, bold ‘X’ strikes across my dad’s face in red marker.
While Ray and I have large, black question marks at the top of our photos.
A sour taste fills my mouth and my stomach churns.
What is this…why?
When I touch the pictures, my hands tremble and my heart thumps.
I don’t understand what I’m seeing.
There’s a large desk at the far corner, papers scattered across it.
More pictures are on the desk, including some written notes…all in
