A Wasted Twenty Eight Years

This post is written for Friday Fictioneers. My story follows the picture prompt.

antiques-along-the-mohawk

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

I can’t believe that anyone would purchase that old building.  The road in front of the building is inaccessible to any vehicle.  The only view now is from the ferry that runs past the crumbling factory. Besides the Captain, I am the only passenger.

My grandfather worked at the company. He would wake to the sound of that old very loud alarm clock at 5 am. Grandmother always made him a pot of coffee before he started off to work. Twenty eight years with the same daily routine.

Not a soul had even heard the word asbestos.

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