I'd seen the moving truck pulling up three weeks ago, behind the little blue car a mother and son stepped out of. The ripped t-shirt hung nicely from his shoulders; exposing pale skin in places and hiding in others. I sat against the crumbled little wall of the old church, watching over the house that had been up for sale for seven months now. The scaffolding is always cold under my hands, no matter the time of year, it always feels cold.
Ash falls from my unattended cigarette and on to my leggings, my eyes wander from him to the fallen ash. When they return to the spot he once stood in there was nothing but his mother and two men, carrying box after box into the new house. He never once picked up a box or smiled at his mother, he just strolled down the street with the kinda look that made me think he wasn't going to come back to my little town... but he did.
