LOCKERBIE, Scotland — Six bright modern bungalows in Lockerbie's Sherwood Crescent stand out amid the neat rows of grey 1950s houses around them.
The modernity of the new, red-brick exteriors, still unweathered by the harsh Scottish climate, is one of the few physical reminders of the tragedy which befell this sleepy town of 4,000 close to the English border.
Until the night of December 21, 1988, other older houses stood on the spot. Then, in a moment, there was nothing but a yawning chasm, itself as deep as a house, carved out of the earth by the wreckage of Pan Am Flight 103 after it was blown out of the night sky by a suitcase bomb.
All 259 people on board died. The ghastly debris of plane, people, luggage and jet fuel, falling six miles through the darkness, killed 11 more on the ground.
Pictures of the devastation shocked the world and etched the name of Lockerbie on the minds of air travellers everywhere.
Far away in a special Scottish court set up on a former U.S. air-base in the Netherlands, one Libyan was on Wednesday jailed for life for the bombing after a lengthy trial. His co-accused was found not guilty.
The local press has given the trial regular coverage, but many residents want to forget the events of 12 years ago.
"People sometimes talk about it at anniversaries, but in general nobody mentions it," said local resident Mary Thompson.
"The past has all gone. It's all forgotten," said Derek McCormack, 51.
"I've got no interest in the trial—it was all such a long time ago," he said.
An avenue of ageing sycamore trees in Sherwood Crescent, leafless beneath a grey winter sky, stops abruptly where the plane came down.
In their place young trees are springing up around a small memorial garden set aside so the people of Lockerbie who want to grieve for loved ones lost—and they are many—can pay respects in private.
Tucked away behind well-manicured borders, a single plaque set in granite commemorates the residents who died in their beds and armchairs.
Twelve years on, two wreaths are draped before the memorial.
On one, a handwritten message, the ink smudged and running from the winter rain, to the four dead members of the Somerville family: "In memory of Jack, Rosalind, Paul and Lynsey—always in our thoughts."
Away from the town, in nearby hills where cows and sheep graze calmly in fields once littered with human remains, a small chapel stands beside Tundergarth Church, quietly commemorating the 270 victims.
The visitors' book bears witness to the huge numbers, many relatives of those who died, who are still drawn to this small corner of Scotland by the burden of shared sorrow.
Barely a day passes without an entry.
September 17, 2000: "Daddy, not a day goes by when we all don't miss you. You and others, rest in peace," wrote Lisa and Katherine Platt, wife and daughter of David Platt, an architect from Staten Island, New York.
On the wall above the album containing a photo of every person who died, a plaque reads: "There are three things that last. Faith, hope and love and the greatest of these is love."