Rays of afternoon sunlight poured in through the windows of the large living room, which had an array of open boxes littered across the floor. Each was being filled with trophies or photos that had once occupied the large mahogany display case, by which Arya stood now. She examined each photo and trophy she took out with great care and attention, gently running her fingertips over the edges as before reluctantly placing them in one of the boxes by her feet.

Her eyes fell on the gilded photo frame that now glimmered in the rays of sunlight, and her eyes pricked with tears as she recalled the moment it had been taken in: she still remembered the silky softness sand and how it had crumbled beneath her feet as she ran towards Zack alive with joy and glee. He'd seemed so nervous as she'd approached him, eyeing the seagulls around them warily as they lunged towards his French fries.

Arya blinked before setting down the frame with countless others in the cardboard box and then closed the flaps over it as if the flimsy pieces of brown cardboard could shield her from the memories it held; the silence in the room was cut sharply by the unravelling of tape which Arya placed firmly over the box to seal the remnants of her brother that always seemed to cause a melancholy ache in her heart.

She traced the edge one last time before pushingit away and straightening up. The large living room was fairly orderly otherthan the numerous boxes that were scattered across it and Arya felt as though theroom had become a shell of what it used to; it was now devoid of all life andjoy. Arya remembered a time when she'd cursed at the trail of socks or wrappersshe found littered on the floor as Zack sat in the cream-coloured couch that wasaligned in perfectly in centre of the room opposite the TV where sheand he watched all kinds of movies and detective shows. His hands tremulous andeyes wide as he cowered behind a blanket whilst watching something evenremotely gory or graphic. 

Arya could not...would not believe, that someone who'd been so afraid of violence and terror and death could have condoned what he did. What kinds of twisted logic could have convinced him that what he was doing was right? How could she have let him become controlled and consumed by the cold, calculating logic that he seemed to love so much? How could she have not seen what was happening?

The sharp knock on her door anchored her back to reality. She weaved through the array of boxes ensuring she didn't trip over any of them as she made her way to the front door. A familiar dark-haired man a little taller and a little older than her stood at the porch, his eyes flitting around the littered area.

"You ready to go?" he asked, forcing a small smile as he saw her.

Arya didn't reply turning to survey the house behind her one more time, fondly reminiscing her childhood as her eyes scanned over the faded wallpaper and cracked skirting panels. She could hear the soft impatient tap of the man's foot, and then nodded, grabbing her keys one last time before stepping out of her childhood home.