The night is inky black
It is cold enough to chill the flesh, chill the bones, chill the soul. I draw my cloak around me and stiffen my shoulders to the frigid air. I feel the skin on my face harden, the lines become deeper, my eyes narrow.
I trace my steps along the narrow path amongst the trees. My breathing is a mist.
There are sounds all around me. A pair of owls twit and woo. A fox barks. A muntjac is noisy and indiscreet in the woods. The footsteps of ghosts follow me in indistinct echoes. Always ghosts. The wind disturbs the leaves.
The river is hidden to my right. It is swollen with recent rain. I sense it kissing the top of the banks on either side, brushing the underside of the bridge, and silently hurrying towards the far distant sea.
My house, home for what seems like forever but not for much longer, is a huge, looming solid shape. There is a light in a broken square. It shines out like a beacon, and a charm, in the darkness.
The night is inky black.
It surrounds me, engulfs me drowns me. I crunch slowly up the gravel drive. The wild rabbits flee my approach in panic.
I wonder if she will be home.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Daniel Danger