Another drabble for friday's writing piece.__________
She wouldn’t stop crying. Her grave was 10 years old now. Miranda would go out to comfort her; leaving me alone in the house with the glass windows.
We were watched, constantly.
Sometimes we saw shadows of hands with distorted arms stretching in the glass windows.
It was awful at night. Our mirrors would vibrate when we went to wash up for the night. Little tremors from tapping on the other side that made our reflections shiver.
With a crying grave, watching windows, and mirrors trapping someone behind them, normalcy is difficult to even attempt.
It wasn’t always like this.
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