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Weekly Contest #259
The flat becomes a graveyard, its soul fled somewhere unreachable. Our hanging photographs are survived only by the ghostly rectangles of clean paint, the rest of the walls discoloured from the everyday grit of our lives. Flowers I bought die in their vase, petals collecting like leaves beneath a wilting tree. There is a sense of something ending; a curtain falling, a book closing, dirt tossed on a casket. I stand on the stairs, watching him silently through the gap in the doorframe. I can only see a sliver of him from this angle; the singu...
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