The picture was old and worn. As I lifted it out of the box with gentle hands, I was terrified that it would suddenly dissolve into dust. The box had been in my family for generations, nobody quite knowing it's true age. It was mahogany, simple and dark. Just like our history, I thought. The lid had roses carved into it, their stems intertwining and the once red paint was faded into pinks. I studied the picture more intently. There were three people, sometimes blinded by the numerous flashes occuring in the background and none of them looked happy. To the far left was a man. He was old, no simpler way to put it. His beard was long, just like the robes he wore. Even if I didn't know who this man was, I would have known that he would be dead by now. In the middle was a teenager, 15, her grandmum had told her. His dark hair was cut short, revealing a scar in the exact shape of a lightning bolt. He was covered in blood in some places. His face was set in a grim line. The last person was the one she was looking at the article in the first place for. Dark hair hid most of the person's face, wavy and shoulder length. Behind the angled bangs lay grey eyes, even though it was black and white, I knew what color they were. She (for, that is what the person is, a female) wore a dark t-shirt, black, she presumed and jeans. She seemed to have been crying at one point, but was no longer. The middle boy had his arm around her shoulder. From what her family had told her, this had been such a sad day, and all three of them were being exceptionally strong for not bawling their eyes out at the moment. Suddenly the girl's looked up and glanced at the boy. He nodded and she returned the nod and ran off. I almost laughed at the irony. Her grandmum had told her that earlier that day she had made the decision to stop running away from her problems. Well, the boy in the picture sure caused her some major ones, that's for sure.
