Fiction is a useful illusion or pretense … a story invented by the imagination.
We open on what we think to be two women sitting in a warmly lit room, but we can’t be sure. We inch forward, hoping for some clarity. We are careful to not make noise. We think we do this out of courtesy, but we allow it could be something more nefarious.
We decide we are not afraid.
Sunlight filtered through a broken window, barely conquering the dust filled air to land on what was left of the Victrola. Kayla hesitated, just a moment, thinking she could escape before the dust anchored her to the rest of the ruins in the room. Her feet moved forward as her mind considered the possibilities.