Storm Hamilton paced around the large dining room of the old country manor; he rarely came this far out of New London, but today the policework demanded it. The room was grandly decorated with sterling silverware and expensive china plates covered in dust, a finely embroidered and mold-stained table cloth, and decorative vases which held long rotted flowers–a shrine rested in a corner, out of place amongst the old decor, and recently tended. The place was a museum, an artifact that had been frozen in time by the war; Storm’s mind danced with thoughts of the life that had once filled the room.
*Written as a response to the Three Line Tales Week Fifty prompt.
More stories featuring Storm Hamilton can be found HERE.