The house, now empty, holds its hill in wait. Its garden rises too unevenly – a broken mower lies there, rusting well – and shaggy grass obscures the earthen scalp. A pathway reaches down, parting the weeds, and from the pavement points to the eager door. It’s red. The walls are white. Their paint-pores drip with rain.
Read MoreDusty air whooshes around my skin. Lightspheres chase my sleeves, sending illumination slithering across sandstone. Why do I bother? Hope has become as intertwined with my body as my heart; to rip hope away would be to rip my veins away with it. But that hope is what pumps blood through me, so I can’t resist its commands.
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