A Short Story or My Love Becomes A Shroud

He’s thinner than she remembers. His shirt hanging awkwardly on his shoulders, his gait sluggish. Pants barely held on by the leather belt.

He’s walking slowly across the lawn, arms deep in pockets.

She wants him to look up, to see her standing there waiting for him. But his eyes are glued to the ground. A word from her lips would do the trick, she knows, but for some reason she hesitates. Unspoken words die before they’re given life.

So instead she waits.

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