Frost grips the edge of Conor’s window, outside glistens white and the garden spikes with overnight snow. Waking, he recoils from the crisp light bouncing off the white topped hills. Everything looks clean. With stinging eyes, he buries his head under the rumpled pillow and dreams of waking to a brand new life, the slate wiped clean; everything clean. Instead he forces himself from his bed, crawls under the hot water and down to the kitchen.
No more posts.