Rough Orange Square

From so high up, she looked out onto the world but all she thought of was him and his small white face. She felt his piercing green soul boring holes into her.


She held the tiny cloth in her hand. Orange, of course it was orange. It was rough against her soft palm, but kindly worn. It was left tacked to the windowsill and she knew it was for her. Because even though she didn’t know him, somehow, she did.

She watched the tree in the yard – fiercely green somehow, even though the green had gone from the grass, leaving in its wake crispy, dry strands, yellow from the blistering heat of the sun. The path stretched out and touched the sun and as she watched the world turned by everything stayed the same.

The keys were handed over when it was time for the keys to be handed over. She descended the staircase feeling like a burden to herself. Her long, white skirt trailed behind her, collecting the fine film of dust from the stone steps.

Her footfalls echoed.

She felt so far from herself.

The End

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