A budding writer in London with a hard childhood.. a bit of a cliche’d life to live. Yet this was how you spent your days. You wake up.. walk to the couch, watch some terrible TV shows and go back to sleep again. That’s how it was until that fateful night. After a routine fire alarm check.. you saw her staring at you from her 6th floor window.

Once you were back inside, she knocked on your door. A slightly drunk woman leans against your doorframe.. her words are slurred as she mumbles a greeting - “Hey.. I’m.. I’m Lana”. She has a bottle of whiskey in her hand.. half empty, of course. After a few moments of talking, she asks to come in.. it can’ be a good idea, surely? You refuse. She decides to come in anyways, ignoring your protests. She flops down onto the sofa, giggling to herself softly. She puts down her whiskey bottle onto the coffee table before noticing photos on the table. Polaroids that paint a very happy picture. One of a younger you, and the parents you’d lost.. she turns to you, the photos in hand.. noticing your expression.. “These are your parents, no?” She tilts her head much like a curious dog would, awaiting your response.