This story is one of the November Writing Challenge entries chosen to be a featured story.
In the room they fell in love, sunlight creeps in through a dewy window as the smell of herbs lingers in the air. Their song plays on an old radio – melodic and broken from the static: ‘every little thing she does is magic.’ She lightly sways, tracing her fingers over a paintbrush, and lets cigarette ashes fall on a saucer. The smoke covers the dust, and she opens a timepiece marked with his initials that acts like a compass. It points to him. Every time. No matter the distance. He walks in and takes her breath away so effortlessly. She wraps a strand of hair behind her ear and feigns nonchalance. He leans his forehead against hers and then picks up his satchel, a doleful look on his face, without saying a word. They let the silence be enough. Until it isn’t anymore. He leaves, more vulnerable than monster, and she hangs in the doorway, transfixed by their last kiss.