Gerald’s return ominously coincides with the approach of winter. The morning he returns, the sky dawns a dappled grey, limping in like an old, weary horse, as smaller clouds gallop across the vast horizon and trip across the distant mountains, falling off into tomorrow. A mist descends, wrapping itself around the hills like a shroud and feeling its way into the orchard where it clings to the withered trees and kisses the grass like an absented lover.
And coming back just as harsh and cruel, the Voice speaks out, saying it would’ve been easier for both of them if Gerald had died.
“I know,” she says softly, watching the ambulance pull away, the thin dust trail it leaves behind blown aside by the cold wind.
“What’d you say?” Dan asks absently, standing nearby on the porch steps.
“I didn’t say anything, did I?” she smiles.
“I thoug…
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