Steve stared at the front door. There seemed more steps leading to it than he remembered.
Heโd come a long way.
The miles were many from west coast to east, but the emotional travelling had been the hardest.
Steve leaned against a tree stump and rummaged through his pocket for a packet of cigarettes. He thumbed out the last one and put it to his lips, trembling.
As he sparked his lighter, the porch light awoke.
Mary peered through the crack in the door. Only stillness, but for the dying embers of a cigarette at the foot of the steps.
Hey, listen
Written as a creative wake up for Friday Fictioneers. Photo supplied by Dale Rogerson and hosted as ever by the wonderful Rochelle.
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