They cleaned out their grandmother’s shed. A hoarder of sorts. She called it collecting. Everything has value, a story.
“You know she’s going to come back and haunt us for messing with her shit.”
“It’s junk, not even charity wants it. Look at this painting, peeling from the backing, just a cheapie.”
Sarah rested the faded image by the wall next to the bin and stepped back. Her sister handed her a glass of wine. They clunked their glasses to honour the matriarch and stared at the rubbish. People started to move within the photograph. The city came alive. A younger version of the grandmother waved from the bridge.
“Better keep this one.”