Looking at the few pictures I had of my son, my ears ring as the sirens in my birth city scream endlessly. My son is a good man, as a soldier he makes me proud. The last news of him that had reached my ears had been that he was deployed in Central Europe. Despite the lack of communications I am sure he lives, for something in my gut tells me God has kept him alive. The sound of panic in the street takes me out of my mind and back to reality. If the fools thought wasting their last moments in a panic while murdering one another would save them so be it. Even if they could fly over the traffic it was too late to escape the blast radius of the inbound nuke. I gently grab a picture of my son, in the picture he wore his uniform proudly, and I decide to take my time heading up the old worn out stairs. The best time of my life was spent here, it is fitting that it shall also end here. Reaching the top, nostalgia overwhelms me. With every step I take down this hallway I replay another memory.
Slowly, I grasp the doorknob and turn it. This room certainly is the most memorable room in this entire house. The piano room. Nostalgia forces a weary smile to my face. His favorite artist was Debussy, while mine was Chopin. I sat down on the piano bench. The more I played my favorite piece from Debussy, the less I could hear of the screaming sirens. I play, as if it will somehow grant me the power to see my son one last time. Playing the piano makes reality seem so far away. Suddenly, darkness envelops me. Far off in the distance is a light, and my ears must deceive me for I hear the comforting sound of the piano.
…
The thought crossed my mind of writing a story following his son. Thoughts?