In a flea market, a shoebox filled with photographs. That's all we have. What lives could be saved, if only the box had been labeled? I found it lying on a street corner, near an old mansion where my brother and I live. There were men and women neatly tucked into pressed suits and fine linen dresses. They are our family, I guess. Anonymous faces attentively listening to our stories, witnesses to the cold and lifeless concrete of a flea market; it is a parched landscape that is otherwise beautiful in the orange twilight. We have more money than we need to last a lifetime, but that can't buy us back our family. I watch in delight as strangers rush off on their various paths, ignoring the comfort they and the anonymous faces in the photographs bring me, but brother, he hates them. Just one conversation with him, and it seems like he hates the face of humanity itself. “Never trust anyone,” he constantly warns. “They leave you when you need them most.” The departure of our parents had deeply affected him. He doesn't like coming here, but I know there's a small part of him, albeit hidden, that craves companionship. That day, the sun bathed me behind my brother's head, making me squint at his figure. My thoughts are interrupted by the loud crash of a porcelain doll falling from our booth, its parts damaged beyond repair. At our booth were dozens of dolls that my brother bought at a rather expensive antique store, in a vain attempt to blend in with the rest of the ordinary people. My fingers grip the rough table, my knuckles white from the brutal force. I close my eyes as the merciless sun stares down at me obscuring my vision and I wonder, once again, for the umpteenth time, the reason...... middle of paper ...... eyes glued, vision of weaker and weaker, the body became paralyzed and the hum of the hospital machines turned into a dull throb. And slowly, I rise, rise into the escape of pure happiness. “Everything will be fine,” she said. My sister never lies, but that day she did, taking quite a large part of me with her, leaving behind an empty shell looking for a glimpse of her in the bustling market. I grip the shoebox tightly and suddenly realize. From the photographs, she never had any hope of having a family, rather I hoped that this would be enough to anchor her to me. I close my tired eyes, vision fading, body becoming paralyzed, and the busy voices of the flea market fading to a dull throb. And slowly I fall, fall into the dark abyss of my mind, memories blurring the present for the past, until all that remains (of us) is a shoebox full of photographs..