*Prompt: tell a story in 250 words*
She trails her fingers lightly over the petals of the dying rose. She hadn’t stepped foot in the house since everything happened, the memories too strong. The smells still linger as they did on the last day. Some things have a tendency to remain the same even among tragedy.
Her eyes blink, trying to adjust to the change in light as she steps into the darkened bedroom. The place where it could have all been fixed, or, she muses, a place where they played pretend. Life had been simpler than, and she wants to lie, throw the word happiness around, but she knows neither of them was truly happy in the place together. Still, things could have been so different had life continued the way she designed. The bed is still half made, as though thrown together with the intent of finishing when there was enough time. She can picture her bedhead, trace the fallen strands of hairs as then fell to the pillow in a hurry. Funny how you never know what time you have until it’s gone. But she knows time wouldn’t have changed anything.
“Did you get everything you needed out of that room?”
She turns towards the door, listening as the voice echoes across the empty room.
“Yes”, she whispered, her fingers clutching the sheets.
The door closes silently, much like the way things were left.