Jason stood in front of the place that used to be his home. His hands were buried in his pockets as he surveyed the damage. He was sad to see that the damage was total.
He moved into what had once been his living room. All around him on the ground were charred and blackened pieces of furniture. Jason kicked around debris searching for the remnants of anything that could be considered salvageable. He looked up and around him, taking in the skeleton of a home and the beams that used to be wall studs.
For a brief moment, he pulled his hands out of his pockets and wiped at his eyes. He wasn't sure if he was getting emotional or if some ash or smoke had gotten in his eyes. Jason safely assumed that both could have contributed to his sudden tears.
This was his house. And now he had nothing. The fire had consumed everything that he had come to identify as home. Yet he continued to sift through the remains.
Jason made his way over to the area that had been his bedroom. There was no longer a bed. There was no longer a dresser. There was no longer a closet holding his clothes and shoes. He wondered if he was wasting his time by looking through this place. He wondered if he was simply pouring salt on his open wounds.
He looked down and caught a glint of something that reflected the sunlight for just a moment. He bent and cleared away the soot and ash, revealing a photograph in a cheap frame. It was a picture of his parents who had died nearly ten years earlier, victims of 9/11.
His tears came again. This time there was no stopping them. How had this photo survived? It made no sense and defied all logic that this one thing would survive a fire that had taken away so much from him. But he closed his eyes and he thanked God. If this is all he could take away from this ruined place, it was enough.
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