Give your harshest criticism please! Rip it to shreds if you like!
264 Prinsengracht
The room is small and dark, with the only light coming from a single window near the ceiling. The window illuminates just what is necessary to see, without allowing the luxury to closely examine my surroundings. At first glance, one could not differentiate this room from any other attic, anywhere in the world, but to those who know what it really is, it stands for something far greater.
What caught my eye at first was the book under a glass case, carefully shielded from any pollutants. The book is no bigger than my hand, and covered in red and white fabric that had yellowed with age. Inside, the writing is neat and childlike, and stretches from one corner to the next, ignoring the boundaries of margins. The writing itself is considered more precious than jewels or money, as neither can purchase the ideas that are written on the fragile pages. The words speak of happiness and truth that the author was not allowed to become acquainted with because of who she, and millions of others were. The simple innocence that was somehow able to exist in a time of such tumult is embedded in the ink of the script. The language on the page is not my own, and I cannot comprehend the words, but I see around me the remains of the life of the person who wrote them.
Outside, I hear laughter of people playing in the street. I see a tall chestnut tree arcing over the house, as if protecting the inhabitants from danger. I wonder if this is what it could have been like seventy years ago, when a young girl lived in this very house, looking out the same window, and hearing the same laughter. At this moment, we are the same, the only difference being time. As I walk down the steep stairs toward the exit, with every step a piece of the girl walks with me. The world outside is fresh and so seemingly untainted by the tragedies that occurred there. But, because I know what others might not, I see it with another heart beating alongside mine.
