This was the place: derelict building, at the end of the alley, last door on the left, the guy had said. Mind you, he had been very drunk and took two full unsteady minutes to examine the photo I showed him before answering, “That's Lola for sure, not that you'd recognise her; you her father or summat?” I nodded and gave him all my available cash before moving on; this was the end of my search, many months of wandering the streets at night, peddling the picture of my little girl, trying to avoid trouble. I pushed the door open and climbed the stairs, covering my mouth because of the putrid stench of urine-washed vomit, finally arriving at what was her room. I hesitated before pushing the door open, dreading what I might find. She lay there, my angel, pride of my heart, cold and immobile, gone.
(Fictional Six Sentence)
