Jack was always last…

Image result for wheatfield

“There’s nothing out there,” I said stepping across decript floorboards.

They creaked in protest.

“Ok,” I responded. “I guess there’s some wheat in the field. Though it’s wilted.”

The wind shuffled the flies on the brick windowsill.

“What? You thought they were paper airplanes?” I chuckled.

It was cold. It was cold for a few nights now. I wondered where Maria was.

I looked at the tracks. The train was still. I wondered what it was waiting for.

My father’s watch was broken. I left it open where the flies had been and let the rising sun glint off the face.

It’s reflection traveling in the direction of Novgorod.

A crow cawwed in the distance.

It must have been a week since I’d gone up the stairs. I judged as much by the empty tins clustered like crown jewels in the corner.

I fiddled with the cross round my neck.

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