PHOTO PROMPT © Nathan Sowers
“You can come with me,” she insisted.
“Mazie,” I sighed. “You’re old enough to know not to take Gramma’s stories literally.”
The seven-year-old shrugged, and the new pixie cut she’d insisted on and which took away the curls I so adored, glinted in the light.
She glanced at the dilapidated building, then at me. Her face was inscrutable. Was she hesitant or exasperated? Perhaps both?
The moment stretched.
“Gramma’s right,” she sputtered. “You’re too stubborn for your own good.”
And she stepped through the mirror, onto grass, and disappeared into the shack.