the wind blows (10)

He picks up the photograph, now free of its shattered frame, and slips it into his pocket. Without a word, he leaves the house, pulling the door shut behind him.

Outside, the plain stretches endlessly, a canvas of desolation painted in shades of grey. The man walks into the wind, his coat billowing around him. The house grows smaller and smaller behind him until it is nothing more than a speck on the horizon.

The wind blows, erasing his footsteps as he goes. And the plain remains, as it always has, waiting for the next soul brave enough to face its whispers.