Monday, 30 November 2020

His and Hers.



His house has been empty for a long time; bramble and vine grow across the front door and even he would have to stoop to enter.

He was not a tall man, some saw him as a hobbit, others as a gnome; his beard was not long, but it was bushy.

Today a bush bars the way to his workshop, which like the house, lies empty. 

There is no car waiting to be repaired, no car waiting to be collected and the track that leads from the road is overgrown and littered with November’s leaves.

He died in a car crash, not far from this place; on a road that few drive down and when they do they are rarely in a rush.

He was just unlucky.

Her house is empty too; it stands alone in the forest, distanced from the village.

But everyone from the village followed her to the cemetery that sits on the hill above.

From here she can see his house.

And he, hers.

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