Last Embrace

By Rick Hartford

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Natasha sat in front of the door and lit a cigarette, waiting for him to come home.

The war was over.

We had won.

Now we could go back to the way it was before.

A victory parade marched right by the house, with bands and clowns and old soldiers fading away as they walked by.

The president had given a speech promising a return to normal. “But for now, stay safe, stay inside. Do NOT open the door.”

After the parade Natasha went into the kitchen to get one of the Meals Ready to Eat which a government worker in a protective suit slid through a slot in the back door every day. As she walked by the front window she saw a street light flickering. The air around it seemed pixelated. And a crow that landed on the light appeared to have two heads.

The next day she spent looking out the front window, waiting for him to return as she did every day.

And then a man appeared in the distance. It was Dan! Back from the war, in his smart uniform, walking down the street. When he saw her in the front window he waved and broke into a run up the front walk.

Natasha rushed to the front door to greet him.

She opened it.

The trees were all dead and scorched, the sky dark grey and cold, tendrils of smoke curling into the air, the swirling black ash where Dan had been standing only a moment ago settling to the ground.

It was all a lie.

We hadn’t won after all.

A wind came and Dan’s ashes dispersed into the air and slipped through her fingers as she tried to caress him one last time.