Wind had blown open the door and slammed it against the side wall.  Its framed glass shattered and punctured the face of his great grandfather in the tired portrait of him nailed to that wall.  He had watched all this from his desk, and sensed more was to come.  That ‘more’ did come, but more as a wave of breathlessness passing through him, returning and then retreating, till it all of a sudden settled in as an unnerving nausea in his gut.  He had not known his father’s grandfather.  All he had ever known was that he had died in a flash flood when still a young man​.  The frameless hand-painted photograph of him had since been handed on down.  He hadn’t been alive at the time of the drowning, but he now knew that he no longer had the portrait to pass on, that in life there is a second death when an only reminder is finally lost to the wind.