Microfiction: Terminal

“They’ve called me back,” she says, letter in hand.

“You’ll be fine, mum,” they all soothe. “Look, it’s snowing!”

White flakes. White coats. White lies.

“I’m very sorry -” but he isn’t, at all -“There’s nothing more we can do.”

No. She’s not ready. She has unfinished business. “Nothing?”

He’s scrawling away.

“Except the usual,” he says, nodding to a door in the corner, an ordinary door, with “Enjoy!”

She opens the door and steps through to sunshine and sea, her bare feet tiny on hot sand.

“And where’ve you been?” asks mum, shaking out a towel.

© Joanna Rubery 2017

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