I looked back at the outside world, where autumn was touching the trees with fingers of russet and gold.
My case at my feet, I turned to scan the mullioned windows glittering in the mellow sun.
Why am I doing this again?
The heavy oak door creaked, and a man in a white coat hurried down the steps, reaching out a cool hand for mine.
“Everything is ready for you, my dear.”
This will be the last time, I thought. Haven’t I already done enough?
But my conscience would, I knew, say otherwise.
The debt is not yet repaid.
Written and posted on the run, between locks. I thought I’d go for something a little less explicit this week. Thanks again to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for her ministrations. Where would we be without her?