birch road

It was a misty winter evening in Birch Road. A blanket of London fog hung low in the street, dispersing the thick orange glow of the old streetlights hanging between the houses. Headlights blinded as an old car turned into the road, sputtering as it jerkily accelerated around the corner. Inside was a girl, wrapped…

leaving, finally

I can see the sheet of paper shivering, catching in the breeze as he paces the room. His voice is agitated, thin with stress, head bent down to the phone he holds tight to his ear. The room is hot, stuffy almost, a long rectangle of sun from the old window resting on the dusty…