In amongst the flotsam of our lives, rooftops were starting to reappear – the once raging flood waters had begun their silent retreat. The twisted spire of San Mira now rose defiant and proud from the shimmering depths; inch by inch, yard by yard, devastation and despair was revealed.
Looking down upon it all my father remained hopeful. “It’ll be another week, son – but we’ll get home, we’ll find her.”
Mother had been at work when the first wave came. As we ran we didn’t look back. We didn’t have time – nobody did.
“We’ll get to say goodbye,” he said. “I promise.”