And Her Memories Therein
The knock at her door didn’t rush her out of her seat, no, she’d take her time getting up. Whoever was there, they could wait. Time was just about all she had left at this point. That, and her paintings, and her memories, but her memories were slowly making their way towards the door and the paintings surely would follow. So she took her time, as that would be the last to leave her in the end.
Because when her time ran out, Edith Post would be dead, once again and once and for all. Just like everyone she’d ever loved. Alex. Andy. Michael.
The person at the door knocking, they could wait a moment. Edith closed her eyes and travelled back in time. Fifty-six years ago, back when the music was still fresh and popping and New York didn’t belong to the rats, back when
