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Weekly Contest #345
She waited for the mist to thin before taking the ridge road. It had been years since anyone had called it a road. Grass pushed through potholes, stones slipped loose from the culverts, and every rusted guardrail had fallen to the valley below. The maples came back first, red shoots along the gullies, unbothered by what the years had erased. By midday, she reached the spot. The house, or what used to be one, slumped into the hillside, as if it were trying to disappear. Roof beams collapsed inward. The chimney leaned, held aloft by its habit ...
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