After her sister passed away, Doreen could not stand being alone in the house. They had lived together all their lives. The house was a constant reminder of this.
She started to frequent antique stores, hovering over boxes of old photographs. It was the pictures of men with stoic faces, standing tall in their neat attire that gave Doreen brief moments of elation.
She hung them in the hallway, replacing family portraits. Gave the men names and backgrounds. She stared at their faces and constructed first encounters. They were her former lovers of times that never existed, incapable of sad endings.
Sounds intriguing. I want to read more.
Beautiful and sad. Like a ghost child playing make believe.