Evening light filtered through partially open curtains. Outside the porch’s floorboards sighed. A car’s engine coughed into life. The scent of crushed leaves and motor oil drifted on an errant breeze.
She sighed.
There will be time to sort through the tangled mess inside her heart, to sweep up shards of life, to breathe out the echoes of words she wished to never have heard.
Not yet.
For the moment, she just sat.
A shadow of her former self.
In a house that wept emptiness.
And let the space behind her eyes
Hold her as she waited
To be found.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: © Dale Rogerson
Na'ama Yehuda 
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