Daphne Linn

The snowflakes flurried down around the gravestones, darting across the cemetery and piling up on the already-frozen ground. Two figures made their way down the path, toward the pond, which had iced over in December.

The numbers of the clock were a striking crimson, like that lipstick Georgia liked to wear for going out. Peter blinked a few times, wishing for the stinging in his eyes to subside.

Norman walked briskly through the terminal, gripping his briefcase with white knuckles. The importance of oneself, Norman thought, was defined by the limitations of one’s vision of themselves.