The house was
old, creaking and full of memories, a past long forgotten. It still is. I can’t remember many of the portrait
subjects. Their names escape me and I can’t place any of the faces. I
haven’t seen any evidence of them either. I’m
sure they’re part of the family. The house was left to the family name of
Lothian. I am part of that line, as is my son. He will inherit the house one
day. Maybe he will know where these faces come from. Grandfather wasn’t
much of a historian. None of us are.
Neurin placed the book back onto the
shelf. The candlelight cast itself onto the bookcases and sent eerie shadows
playing across the room. Neurin couldn’t really say he was perturbed by any of
it. Maybe years ago when I was young.
He ran his finger down the spine of his great grandfather’s journal turning
around. A picture lying on the table caught his eye a moment and he stared at
it. He frowned at it next and as he looked closer it dawned on him. No glass. You’re tired Neurin, go to bed for
darkness’ sake.
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