Its quiet in the suburbs. Its too cold for people to be in their gardens; and its not a thoroughfare so few cars drive by. I look past decaying roses and through the first flush of Michelmas daisies, blazing a glorious purple, into the darkened windows of the houses we walk by. Who lives here? Are they watching us? Did one of our neighbours do something seven years ago that he now regrets? How little we know of the people who surround us.
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About Sanjida Kay, The Stolen Child
Sanjida Kay, The Stolen Child.