By D. P. Gooding
He met her soon after the funeral. When he moved in he interpreted the all-pervading gloom as a manifestation of her mourning, until he realised that the cottage just didn’t let in natural light. After they married he had sold his flat to pay off her mortgage, and immediately began building an extension, with French windows looking out on what would later become his rose garden.
This was where he sat, bathed in grey light filtered through a persistent drizzle. His wife remained on the other side. At one point he heard her laugh, as if at something someone had said.
There is so much depth in this drabble. It speaks volumes about relationships and the impact of grief. Well done!
I enjoyed the build-up, but the ending felt flat. To me.