Jun 7
Lily sits on the steps of her front porch, fiddling with the pocket knife she got from her father. His initials were etched into the leather handle in pretty cursive—W.J. Alexandria was quiet, and quiet was never good for Lily. Her thoughts strayed and replayed memories of her father. She remembered the way he died—brutal and inhumanely by those things.
She quickly put the knife back in her pocket. Memories were something to be forgotten. This was her world now. Her father wasn't here, so she had to leave him in the past.
Lily leaned back on her hands, watching as people walked past. Some walked alone, some walked with others. She just observed, waiting for… something.
