When Luke stepped off the train, he walked straight up Halifax, up the hill towards the Basilica, looking for one thing. He knew that where the street crested at the top of the hill, he would be able to see the bakery’s roof. That’s all he wanted to see. Only then would he know if his family was safe.
The street was crowded with people moving at a pace nearly as fast as Luke. You’d think they were all running from something, but they were running to every direction from every other direction. They were simply running. They were all refugees, just not running from or to the same thing. It was a dangerous time.
When he got to the top of the hill he continued running down an alley behind the hardware and then through the back gates of Estate de Simón and out onto the lawn behind the greenhouse and out to the edge of the terrace. Then he stopped running. He stopped and fell to his knees and stated to cry softly. He saw the flag. He still had a home and a family.
Labels: Short Fiction