He was so much lighter than she was, and his features were less African than hers as well, but somehow she knew, even if she’d never seen him before... he was the baby who had been taken away from her at birth. His cheekbones and nose were hers. She knew without a doubt it was her son. He appeared to be about twelve years old.“Good afternoon.” Her voice almost broke when she spoke the greeting.His eyes widened when he saw her. He could not have recognized her, but Sandrine’s blackness and her. It contains no sex, no people. Please do not read if that is what you seek. If you enjoy this very short passage, please vote. The vermillion sun clings tenuously to the day slinking slowly behind the distant mountains silhouetted in the gathering gloom. Once shafts of golden sunlight sparkled off the tile-clad façade pot marked with missing tiles like a jigsaw uncompleted, now tiles hold precariously to the wall, their patina of grime relieved by aerosol graffiti and reflect only decay and. More

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