Every night they’re out there on the porch, a pair of old boots. When I wake in the morning, they’re gone. It’s like someone is visiting me at the end of the day but I don’t know who. I’m all alone out here, have been for years. Ain’t been nobody knocking on my door for a long time. I’ve searched, of course, in case someone’s playing tricks on me but there’s nobody there. Funny thing is they look like my Charlie’s boots, except they can’t be. I buried him and his boots twenty years ago, just after I shot him.
An intriguing photo prompt this week from Friday Fictioneers. Here’s my 100-word story.