Sam let his engine idle as he took a final look at the house. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out an old photo of himself as a boy. He stood in front of the very same house, wearing light-blue shorts and grasping a hose in one hand. Half the image was missing. He rubbed it between his fingers, tracing the torn edge, struggling to complete the frame in his mind.
I’ve got a new short story up at WhiskeyPaper this week. It’s a quiet piece about memory and regret. Give it a read and let me know what you think.
Photo: © Michela Nale