Yana

REGRET

All that was left of the old mansion was a wall with a door. As I walked by, the door creaked open. I glimpsed not a pile of rubble under gray winter sky, but a sunlit garden. The sweet music of a flute wafted on a lilac-scented breeze, beckoning. Enchanted, I approached. But prudence barked: “No! It’s a trick, a trap!” I fled.

The next day the wrecking ball finished its work. Nothing but rubble under gray sky.