On November 7, 2013 by Administrator

Malcolm unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped into the house. He swept his
gaze around the parlor, then slowly wandered from room to room. The house looked
so strange, empty: the bare walls, the cold marble floors. He walked into the
kitchen, then stopped in his tracks. He could see his mother standing there,
smell the mixed aromas of cinnamon and spice, hear the laughter and banter at
dinner time; he could almost feel his father’s bear hug. It would have been
twenty years in August since his parents’ death, and the pain seemed to grow
with each passing day.



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