It’s Dyster. Harry is out on his porch, perched on a chair with his knees up to his chest as he smokes. The house itself is odd. Three stories from the outside, a tower of white paint. A spacious attached garage. It sticks out oddly in Dyster, it was meant to be packed into a city much bigger than this town, sandwiched between other buildings. Made of gassy smells, harbor horns and sharp angles.
It’s made of hopes and dreams and maybe a dozen other homes he looked at with his ex in another life all clobbered together.
His eyes aren’t built for the dark but the porch light is on, he squints. Sees something moving in the darkness. And grips the handle of the door.
no subject
It’s made of hopes and dreams and maybe a dozen other homes he looked at with his ex in another life all clobbered together.
His eyes aren’t built for the dark but the porch light is on, he squints. Sees something moving in the darkness. And grips the handle of the door.