Short stories


The cold: that is how she knows. The cold and the pressure against the door as she tries to force it wide, as though a body were leant against it on the inside, slumped on the doormat with hunched back and drawn-up knees, shaking head and muffled voice saying don’t come in, you don’t want to see, you really do not want to see. And when the door finally gives, unseen hands begrudging every inch, the cold: sharper than on the outside for being so unexpected; more spiteful too, and gleeful. The last of the lingering warmth jostles her shopping bags as it darts past her, frantic for some escape from the swirling pursuit within.

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