Heavy machines begin the demolition of the ancient Federal Housing Units. Most citizens are glad to see the old buildings in the city’s eastern section come down. The government management program has ended. No one in power has interest in the area or the people. Some citizens are forced to dwell among the ruins, for now. Squatters, dealers and a few under-privileged families scratch out their existence in the crime infested neighborhood. They are allowed shelter among the decaying apartments rent free, awaiting the evacuation notice. Eventually all of the buildings will be leveled and removed. This area can no longer produce any revenue for the local government. The citizens be damned.
Salvage companies work alongside the demolition teams. They are removing metals and materials which will be recycled and shipped to healthier and wealthier districts.
Having just reviewed the next buildings scheduled for demolition, a team of workers stop for their lunch break amid the abandoned structures. Reclining against a large machine, one worker notices an object in the rumble. The red color in the small plastic tube catches his eye.
He picks it up and shows it to Zariff, one of his colleagues. He is told that he is too young to remember such writing tools. It is a pen, which was once filled with red ink.
Zariff points at another object which is half buried in the debris filled street. He picks it up. It is an old spiral notebook, faded yellow with age. Each page is covered with hand written words. Though the pages are worn and thin, the red ink still bears witness.
Words in red on an old faded document. A story told. A message shared. A voice from history left for the world to remember.
The contents of the notebook contain the following story.