The house was dark, empty of the long forgotten sounds of life. Had it been dark when the family lived there or had it been filled with light and love and laughter?
He touched the yellow crayon with a finger-tip; lifted up the fragile photograph of the man. Had he ever seen him before? Face all angles; body skin over bones; the living dead?
What if the phone rang, calling for somebody who no longer existed?
Outside the thump of boots, the “Alles Klar?”
He let go of the picture. It fluttered to the floor, a bird with broken wings.
Please excuse my translated German if it is grammatically incorrect. The phrase is “All Clear?”
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