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Weekly Contest #271
The end begins in an empty, fog-laden town. Bare-bones, name already forgotten–this place is nothing but a pit stop for Cecil. A pothole-ridden road connects the parking lot to the train station. In between cracks in the asphalt, green weeds shoot this way and that. Pervasive through it all is the fog, so thick that Cecil can scarcely see three feet in front of himself. Still, he walks with an unshakeable sense of giddy glee. He feels it in his fluttering heart, in the smile that plays at the corners of his lips, in the feather-lightness of ...
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