After kicking Doubt out of my humble abode in the cold light of the day, I would always, under one pretext or another, invite her back in through the rear door every time the sun melted away.
At times, Doubt, dressed as the lady of reason with her cold blade, would berate me for what she had already decided were mere flights of fancy.
“But the signs,” I always protested inwardly.
“He’s not coming back,” she always pronounced with finality, drawing out each and every syllable.
Then, one day, Doubt stopped appearing at my door – at neither the front nor the back.
As I gently closed the door behind me and made my way to the hearth, the ebony marble floor engulfed the moon’s billowing reflection and, with it, a wish.
The wish that he would come back.
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