The last time I saw her she was walking to the cemetery. Sunbright, arms full of daisies.
“What for?” I said. “They’re all dead!”
She did not turn; it was as if I was already gone.
Our last night, I said, “Leave with me,” and she said, “How can I? They will miss me if I go.”
I walked with her to the graves that night. I tried to kiss the ghosts from her, bring her back to life, but she kept turning to them. They called her name; they laughed at me from under their stones.
This is a 100-word story for the Friday Fictioneers, an international writing community hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The photograph comes courtesy of Ted Strutz. Click here if you would like to join the Fictioneers this week, and please click here if you’d like to read everyone’s stories.