Written for a challenge at Caperland where the directions were to write about anything that might take place after the finale.
Fiona knelt to pick up glass shards from the blown out windows, as shattered as she felt. Platform shoes protected her feet but she knelt to grab them barehanded and occasionally sliced or pricked her hands and fingers. The sting was nothing more than the buzzing of a gnat in her ear.
For once in her life she was glad Michael had not used more explosives.
She could pick up glass, she could sweep the dust into a pan, but if she couldn't return to this loft, couldn't be enveloped by its rusted beams and all the things that reminded her of Michael…she wasn't sure what she'd do with herself.