Eidolon Ave: The Second Feast
Harrow’s black hair and square jaw spied in those who’d turn, her hopes crashing as they revealed themselves to be strangers beneath their ripped and torn clothes and threadbare, weather-worn blankets.
“Harrow,” she’d say to the sun.
“I’m sorry,” to the stars.
“Forgive me,” to her god.
And in the silence that followed, always the constant ache of a still-breaking and bleeding heart.
Across the street, Eidolon’s door lay waiting like the open mouth of a scream. The dented metal beckoning her to come in from the rain. To come home. Climb the stairs. To put the key in the lock. Open the door. To lay the coat near the couch and leave the bag on the chair.
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