Shuffle Up

We huddle together on the bench, waiting to see if she will appear.

The markings on the gravestone are now impossible to read, eroded by rain and five years of waiting. Every anniversary we are hopeful of her visit, a sign of her forgiveness that could finally set us free.

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Lights Out

LightsOut

Our new home. Every evening the same routine – switching off the downstairs lights in sequence, pausing at the last.

Waiting in the dark is the ghostly child, the cliché, the best my imagination can muster.

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