He set the gas light out on the table-cloth, slowly adjusting the flame to the lowest setting, mentally counting out the minutes until she arrived. They were running low on gas. Low flotillas of heavy clouds swept in from their eyries in the high mountains, casting their shadows across the river valley.
She was coming home.
Again and again he checked his pocket watch, again and again each half an hour he waited was revealed to be seconds apart.
He looked toward the aerodrome.
There was only fire.
He set off, but knew. Knew it was too late to help.
Too early to mourn.
It was a slow walk home.
Written for this week’s BeKindRewrite prompts Aerodome, Slow Walk Home and Pocket Watch,
as well as for the Friday Fictioneers’ photo-prompt. I’m a bit unsure about this story, I don’t think it works
(my brain hasn’t been co-operating all day.) What do you think?