Here again. It would always be here, waiting, sturdy, unchanging, exactly as it was thirty years ago, exactly as it would be in thirty years. Rust-coloured brick, chalked up with pebbles by bored kids visiting their working mothers. Or fathers. The building was short and unassuming, in a lost part of the city, all development and the roaring, beeping, echoing, clanging crescendo of industry, where no one would go who did not need to be there to survive. It never moved, but it followed, and every morning, five days a week, the earth pulled you to it. It patiently chased by floating above a spinning world. And it wasn’t fair. What right did it have to remain when everything else moved on?
Day 312’s writing prompt was a little different. It came from one of those classic prompts: “Describe a building as seen by a man whose son has just been killed in a war. Can’t mention the son, war, death, or the old man.” How’d I do?