Don't listen to me; this wasn't meant to be no sad song.

Marble floors, white walls, high ceilings; light streaming in.
Children play and scream outside. The scent of grass and summer seeps in.

A cardboard box sits on the chilled marble, falling apart. A boy crouches on the floor next to it, gripping paper aged yellow in his hand.

There's no story, here; not unless you make one.