Photo by CE Ayr

Her stories are all half-stories. She remembers the wall but not the door, the journey but not the destination. First names or last names, but never both. Nothing is true, nothing is false.

The priest is summoned. At her confession, she will not completely recount her sins. He cannot absolve her.

She gets up from kneeling  and walks to the window and stares out into the twilight. A boy leads a mule through the narrow alley below, its hoofs clattering on the cobbles as it staggers beneath its load.

She seems to smile, but her face is wet with tears.


Friday Fictioneers