A/N: To make up for that incredibly short story I wrote yesterday, here is another. For week 28: a story that ends at sunrise.

She never really noticed how beautiful it was. Living there for the many years that she had, it had become familiar, comfortable and cozy, but lost its spark, its life and colour. But now, looking out into that sunrise from the rooftop of her house, she realised how lovely this area really was.

It is true what they say, you never realise what you have until it’s gone. She hadn’t noticed the little patch of greenery by the lake; it seemed almost golden now in the hazy sunrise. There was a little hut at the end of sandy lawns, probably full of old, strange photographs, like the ones she’d found in the attic of this house. But not once, had she thought to check through them. There was something sacred, something untouchable about them, the secrets and stories they held were heavy and felt too large for her shoulders.

She was wrong of course.

Stories and whispered secrets were never too much to bear for those who wished to listen. And she would discover every last one of them, under the pinkish sunrise, before she left. Before she turned away from the safe house she’d called home for many years.

And she would treasure them as she returned to home she had before this one. The one that been stripped and taken away from her by men with guns and thick accents, the one she had been deemed unworthy of because of her faith, the one that was most probably destroyed in the war that had raged on for six years.

She longed for her mother’s books and her father’s cooking. The friends she had at school would be long gone. And if not, they’d be scattered, broken and frail, lost in a world that no longer made sense to them. Her home had been torn away from her, becoming harsh and cold, whenever she closed her eyes, she heard his voice and saw his posters, no longer did it mean the smell of fresh bread and beautiful sights, now it held horrors that she’d never be able to forget.

But the war was over now. And she needed to go back, to pick up what she had left and hold it close, keep it safe. Before she’d leave again, go someplace else. Someplace that wasn’t forgotten or broken, a place not touched by the blood of innocent people.

Though, she realised there probably was no such place left on this Earth.

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