Peace by Riley Church

last. So the rose did not see the socks inch their way to the corner, scared, but hopeful. The rose did not see the broken, cracked hands pull on the shoes and shuffle timidly out of the room. The door did not slam this time, no, it whispered shut with a faint click.

The man went up to the mountain. He craned his neck upward and looked at the moon. His withered lungs took in air, and the man, he looked at the view. Then he bowed his shoulders, curled inward again, and headed home. The door did not slam as the shoes came back off, and crooked fingers with split nails picked up a dead rose. The socks shuffled to the windowsill, watching over the night, but there was no storm. The man stroked the petals and laid the rose to rest, whispering, “You were right.”