There were once stories in colour, in rich red, blossoming pinks and royal blues that I did not know. There were names that were unheard of, and characters to discover. A barber brought the lovers together on a black and white horse from his stables. There was a nameless aunt who died in childbirth, a child who ran for miles for their favourite magazine, and a baby cut out from a photo. I loved the ones I knew and the family I wanted to know. But there was more to discover and see, but scorched away with grey and black ink, like the static on an old TV. Now I saw them in the old photos of an album, heavy like old bricks. The pages stuck together with age, water damage on the spine. I had found my history in a language I could not understand, no names or dates or locations, only guessing at still faces and forced smiles wondering if I had known them, would I had loved them?