Tor Sanderson

The Route Back

A door swings quietly open, whisking in a stranger from the black hole he draws shut behind him. Autumn leaves rush the airlock. One in one out, caressing the cobble stone floor. The dogs eyes rise from his silent dance with the fire and back again. Gravy overflows from plates. Drinks are spilled. Laughter can be heard from the front half of the bar. Towards the back they become disgruntled and hard to make out.