He groaned and went up to the attic, keeping his promise of cleaning it out.
There, under an old, dusty and withered Christmas tree, he found a small diary and a pen.
September 17th, 1941
I've been very lucky. Our base was raided, and not many made it out alive. My mate, George, is nowhere to be found. We're armed and trained, yet that is no comparison to the role fate plays in a war.
Jeremiah
The next day, the boy went to visit his grandfather, knowing that it should be him who keeps his old diary from the World War. He placed the book on the gravestone and bid farewell to the memorial in Washington D.C.
A/N: The last line refers to the World War 2 memorial in D.C.
YOU ARE READING
ad valorem
Poetryunfinished stories around the concept of objects most people are ignorant towards
