The night’s darkness hid his destination until he arrived. He didn’t feel nostalgia, hope, or even curiosity. He’d burned those bridges years ago. The freak spring snowstorm stirred forgotten habits, guided his car to a faraway country he could no longer call home.
Black snowfall accumulated. Cold hardened him, and he waited.
A light punched back grey edges of a lonely dawn, a harbinger of her brighter day.
A man moved through the house toward the kitchen. He pulled filters from the drawer, measured coffee, and retrieved her favorite mug nestled in the cabinet next to the sink.
Bitter regret stained his face as he started his car, resigned to being the one departed.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer