Her voice crackled on the other end of the line, like the familiar warmth of an old fireplace.


“I miss you,” she whispered, words quivering in tandem with the jittering thumps of his aching heart. “Come to me.”


Perspiration glued his phone to one trembling hand. The other clutched a bulbous glass that bore the remains of disintegrating slivers of ice. They tinkled with the indignation of a forgotten alarm.


As the phone line clicked, he took one last look at the fireplace they used to share, and the flower-wreathed portrait that hung above it.

Then he joined her.


Based on the one-word writing prompt: fireplace.

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