“Letting go means to come to the realization that some things are a part of your history, but not a part of your destiny.” –Steve Maraboli
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Crooked houses loomed out of the early morning fog that had nearly swallowed the area around the docks at the City. Half-hidden chunks of iron and broken boards littered the streets, looking like rotting teeth jutting up from the ground. The evidence of war was everywhere, in the smashed-in doors and broken swords, giant craters in the ground and smoke from an untamed fire billowing in the distance. The wind whistled through the cracks in the house I was searching, banging a cupboard door shut and sending papers flying across the ground. My eyes watered and the world blurred as I continued to sift through the rubble piled in the corners. All the furniture had been overturned, and I was carefully righting an upside down couch when I saw a flash of color in the shadows. Red shirt buried under a fallen beam… pale white hands…
“Knaxia!” I screamed. I don’t remember him coming in but suddenly he was beside me, helping me lift the beam off to the side. A survivor.
The only survivor.
