The curtain swooshed in the winter winds. Baring the wall bedecked with souvenirs from their journey together. Framed black and white saga of golden days. Those summers were spent now. Inside the four walls, beneath the same roof, they were separated by a flight of stairs. Winter burned them day and night. His lie. Her mistrust. His passion for money, hers for living. Both guilty. Both proud. Both hurt. Rain rattled against the window, against their hearts. They stood at either ends of stairway. After an infinity, he rushed down the steps just as she climbed up. The winter died.
Courtesy: Friday Fictioneers