We walked up the steps of an old, unused cement building. It stood about five stories high and each brick was in need of a sand-blasting. Vines grew like weeds on the side of building and wrapped around small light posts. The grass looked like it hadn’t been cut in weeks as it scratches my ankles.
“An old friend of ours stays here,” Ezekiel explains as he reaches for my hand, holding it. “His name is Clarence Jerome,”
I look over and see Andy holding Rosin’s hand while she looks at him with a love I’ve never seen before.
We walk up to the tall wooden doors, stopping for a moment, gazing up and then at each other. Almost as if asking each other if we should go in, then a subtle nod comes from Andy and Ezekiel opens the door.
Walking in, I see above me intricate designs on the ceilings,
