clawed at his face , wrapped its hands around his throat , pulled at his hair – but this time the man fought back , desperate to shake off the dust . With all the strength he could muster , the man ripped the door open inwards .
Engulfed by the lashing rain , at the end of the garden path , the visitor halted , lit up by the security light , slender hand poised to close the gate . Soaked-through and uncertain , the visitor pulled down her hood , the rain immediately slashing at her long black hair , flattening and sticking it to her young face . The dust tugged at the man ’ s limbs , earnestly trying to pull him back to safety .
The man knew at once , and knowing , entered the watery deluge with arms opened wide , deep full breaths carrying the rain deep inside . Tears mingled with the rain , tears comprised with grief for a life lost and with joy for a life found . The man strode purposefully towards the visitor . The dust hissed and punched the man in the stomach , fighting for control , but the man had made his choice . The rain washed the dust away .
The man saw the visitor up close . Tear-stained and smiling , the girl had returned , the man ’ s daughter now a woman .
Paul D Coombs is a writer of stories mired in either one or all of the strange , the gothic and the beautifully tragic . He lives in the sepulchral North-west of England and can be found or lost on Twitter (@ Coombsy101010 ). Discover more about Paul , his published stories , and what he is currently working on at
www . pauldcoombs . com .
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