The locket has been wandering since the last time it freed itself from the suffocating grasp of the owner. I could not blame myself for continuously searching for it when it was all I had, now that she was gone.
At the age of 92, I still believed she would return and keep her promise to me—buried underneath the rich land with our hands latched through the small opening of our caskets.
But she drove to our paradise as early as last month.
The locket carried our photo of bloom; I had to have it before I leave. I wanted to tell her the story of how I had it back.
I searched, once again, in the hood of our beaten truck; its sad face mocked my gestures. I sighed when I could not find it. “Help me, please.”
The passenger’s door cranked before it opened. Hanging by its lock, something glowed.
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Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
WORD COUNT: 153
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