blackbird by Gina Frisken

Rita unlocked the door to the flat. “Poor babies,” she whispered to herself. The bed, cot and most of the furniture had long gone, but the small table by the door remained. She touched its worn timber and moved her hand towards the spot where the stained piece of paper filled with black handwriting once stood. Klaus’ last words and she never found their meaning. She never wanted to.

 

She did the sign of the cross and locked the door.