autumnonganymede
My father had a sweater that I absolutely loved. It was soft and had earthy tones. I would steal it and wear it around the house proudly, its sleeves almost long enough to trail along the ground. As I got older, I would wear it less and less as my own idea of style interfered with my secret adoration of that sweater. A couple of days ago, my mother came by to give it to me, telling me that he would have wanted me to have it. Later that night, I slipped it on, embracing its soft and worn feel. The tips of my fingers peeked out from the sleeves. I don't think I'll alter it, at least not yet.
Once the initial dust settled, they all shifted slowly, warily, as if waiting for the enemy to strike back. Nervous eyes looked around in the hopes of spotting more survivors than casualties.
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