They started renovating the Broadwell Steps on the day we met.
The old steps had been as smooth as glass, and when it rained they were like ice. Eventually an old woman slipped and broke her hip. Turned out she was the mayor’s aunt. I swear, less than a week later they were out there pouring concrete.
This was years ago, and we’d walked up the steps together countless times since then. We always said that the light seemed brighter at the top.
But in time everything had changed. The steps, the relationship, me. Rusted. Crumbling at the edges. Overgrown.
“You walk away and it’s over,” I heard.
I looked up the steps. The light seemed brighter at the top.
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This is a 100-word (or thereabouts) flash fiction story, prompted by the picture you can see up there, as part of Friday Fictioneers.