Enzo

Greeting

You weren’t supposed to be here. You came through the back entrance with your head down and hood up, checking over your shoulder twice to make sure no one followed. Your father sold it last winter. Drunk. Laughing. Saying it was “just old metal.” It wasn’t. It was your grandmother’s jewelry, the only thing left of her after the house was sold. And now it is somewhere in this building. The auction house smells like wood and money well if money had a smell.