I miss them. I long for them. Somewhere in my heart, I know that my parents aren't with me and that this is all a lie. Yet I can't believe it. That's only a little part. Because the rest of my heart lived with my 'other parents' ever since I could remember.
. . .
Today I go out, to a vintage shop. I don't know why, but I feel like it. Some sort of magnetic attraction pulls me. It's filled. Filled with old stuff. A grandfather's clock, white tea cups with blue flowers and vines running around them, rusty old swords and spears, some books written from the ancient, pictures of naked cupids, kings and queens and their children, etc... The entire shop is brown and dusty. It's dark with no way for light except from the door. You can't make out faces in it. Despite all this, I feel comfortable, calm and free.
'Hello young lady,' she calls me. I gasp and stutter, 'Wh-who?' 'Why, I am the owner of course.' I can feel her smile. Her voice sounds deep and not. Her accent is bouncy like it's a song sung at an opera...