It’s been snowing since about midnight. She hasn’t moved from her position by the window, though at some point one of the others wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She’s glad for the warmth of it, but she can’t say how long it’s been there.
He was supposed to be here before eleven. They all know he isn’t coming back. She knows it. Still, she can’t move, can’t release that last hope that she might seem him come stumbling towards the door, battered and bruised, but there. She can’t let go, not until the light of dawn banishes her illusions.
Prompt from A Writer’s Book of Days by Judy Reeves