Carolyn sat down on a scratched plastic bench, waiting for her appointment. Arranging her legs primly, she reached for a fashion magazine left on the table near-by. Flipping through aimlessly, she noticed a scrap of paper tucked into the back, it’s yellowed edge barely sticking out. Curious, she tugged gently, revealing a tiny charcoal portrait depicting a middle-aged man. On the bottom was scratched the date ‘February Fourteenth 1834, for Uncle Raynott love Olivia.’ Carolyn sighed, it was obviously fake. What were the chances that a two-hundred-year-old portrait would turn up in a hospital waiting room? Still, it was more interesting than how to apply makeup. Silently chiding herself for her foolishness, she bent over the picture. The man, Raynott, looked, at first inspection, to Carolyn like a criminal mastermind from an old film. He wore an immaculate suit accompanied by a cane. His face was wrinkled, suggesting a great age. In odd contrast, however, he had a mop of dark hair, accompanied by thick judge-mental eye brows. He looked cold, but not, it seemed to Carolyn, because of an evil nature. The creases around his eyes suggested deep sadness, which could not be fully obliterated, but was merely hidden to protect those they loved. Like her cancer.
“Number 95.”

The voice blared across the speakers, knocking Carolyn out of her reverie. Sighing, she tucked the mysterious picture into her purse.