clapham - handsprints on a window
the bus window; a smiley Chinese boy, three years old and rosy cheeked from the November wind, waving vigorously at Yessu as the number 29 drove past him (he missed it by thirty seconds, jogging bottoms halfway down his backside as he returns the wave, watching little fingers press to the glass).
the kitchen window; Fia dusts, absentmindedly as the radio (tuned to a foreign station) plays a snatch of her brother’s music, she almost misses the smudge above the sink that blurs her view of the housing estate below - a pang shoots through her, when the hand print is far too small to be her own.
the shop window; it’s raining, and the mark is not his own, but Allen stares through it aimlessly, a streaky view before him of softer beings floating around the store’s insides (he longs to join them, but Aaron’s face moves among the closest group, upturned to talk soundlessly to an employee, and he turns himself away).