The World of Myth Magazine

It was not the midnight rain rumbling through the dark house that kept him awake.

How could her best friend place artificial flowers on the casket?

He vacated her armchair and staggered to the old staircase. A handful of moonlight illuminated the landing. He swore his wife whispered come to bed, sweetheart.

Impossible, too much spiced rum.

Half-way up the stairs, an exposed tack pierced his foot, forcing him onto his knees.

After the unexpected jolt of agony, he picked himself up, and limped, onward, to the room where her floral perfume lingered like precious memories of a lost lover.

-