lyro
The morning after she disappeared was crisp and bright, and all the sharper for her absence. He hadn't slept and the light burnt his eyes like the heart of a fire will do should you gaze for too long.
The ring was sparkling on the side where he left it. Sparkled like his words had only moments before. It was a tantalising prospect, and a victory in a hard fought battle.
The weather was savage and the wind tore at the night. He'd gone out again - probably to the pub, and the cottage was lonely without him. Fearing the encroaching darkness, she lit a candle and took herself to off to bed.
The lilies were wilting on the windowsill. The edges had curled inwards and taken on a crusty brown colour. There was no one left to care. The house was empty, the beds stripped of sheets, the floors swept clean. The lilies were the last remainder of the funeral.
There were a dozen eggs in the basket. All carefully arranged to make sure they didn't crack against each other. But then the basket had been abandoned. It was just sitting in the middle of the farmyard, as if she had given up and disappeared into thin air.
She tied the strings of her apron in a careful knot. She was waiting for him. A glimpse of his hat, his hair, his face. Looking through the window she noticed how wild the roses had grown. It had been his job to keep them in check.